Murder at Malfoy Manor
by Sophiax
Summary: Lucius Malfoy is found murdered at his home during a hunting weekend. The Trio, along with Ginny, Draco, Narcissa, Snape, Dumbledore and Voldemort each have their reasons for wanting Malfoy dead. But will they solve the mystery in time? Parody of Clue.
1. The Invitation

**Murder at Malfoy Manor**

**Summary: **Lucius Malfoy is found dead at his home during a hunting week-end. The Trio, along with Ginny, Draco, Pansy, Narcissa, Bellatrix, Snape, Dumbledore and Voldemort each have their reasons for wanting Malfoy dead. But will they solve the mystery in time? Parody of 'Clue'.

**Author's Notes:** Consider this AU: it takes place in the summerbefore the Trio's seventh year, but the events of HBP did not happen i.e. Dumbledore is alive, they aren't off hunting Horcruxes, etc. But hey, even Voldemort shows up to this soiree, that's why it's labeled as Mystery/Parody! Expect some very non-standard ships, as well. A note about the structure: the point-of-view will shuffle between six or seven different people, separated by those neat little lines. In that way, it will be like the film, Clue, for those of you who have seen it. I hope it's not too confusing! One more thing: some people may drift a little out-of-character, but that is deliberate. It's supposed to be tongue-in-cheek, humourous, what have you.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter One**

**The Invitation**

Six house-elves swarmed around Narcissa Malfoy's feet, scurrying about, awaiting her daily spate of orders. Narcissa looked down her perfect aquiline nose at them, produced a sheet of parchment, and began reading.

'Heffy and Lubby, all twelve guest bedrooms must be thoroughly cleaned, and I mean spotless. Sarky, Ponkle, and Roony, coordinate the kitchens for the menus I have provided for the next eight weeks. Gringle, press Draco's clothes, he's been tossing them on the floor and they've become wrinkled.' Narcissa's clear, imperious voice floated through her well-appointed drawing room, and the house-elves scrambled at her words. She sighed. It really was a tremendous amount of work, to run a house such as Malfoy Manor. Of course, it was her place as the pure-blood wife of Britain's wealthiest wizard, Lucius Malfoy. She was the lady of the house, in command of thirty house-elves, hostess extraordinaire of the country's best parties, the beautiful and elegant pillar of the community. Truthfully, it was exhausting.

Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black, had been raised for her role. She was the middle of three sisters, and the most obedient of them all. Little Narcissa, always does what she's told, pure of blood and fair of face. As she mused, a wrinkle marred the fine skin of her smooth forehead. She may be obedient, she may do what is best for herself and her line, but Narcissa _had_ been sorted into Slytherin House in her Hogwarts days. She was not completely harmless.

'Mother?' the voice of her son, Draco, interrupted her reverie. Narcissa turned, and automatically smiled as her tall eighteen-year-old son entered the room. Draco was Narcissa's only weakness, the treasure of her heart, her only child. She loved him to distraction, and Draco had always been so good, so loyal, to his beloved mother. They were close, as mothers and sons went; in conversations with her society friends, Narcissa had gathered that other women, such as Lucretia Nott, or Miranda Goyle, hardly knew anything about their own children or what they got up to. With a warm glow in her heart, Narcissa knew that Draco told her everything that was important.

'What is it, dear?' Narcissa asked.

'Is it true? We're hosting a hunting party?' Draco looked hopeful, and Narcissa regarded him fondly. Draco was the very picture of his father, Lucius: silky white-blond hair, mercurial grey eyes, tall and thin frame. With pride, Narcissa felt that her own attractive features had resolved themselves better on Draco's narrow, aristocratic face, lending him an air of delicate strength that his father lacked. Or perhaps that was just her knowledge of Draco's more sensitive inner nature.

Narcissa smiled again. 'Yes, it's true. Your father thinks it would be a good idea, to repair some old Ministry ties that have been…damaged. I'm sending out the invitations today.'

The shadow that had passed over Draco's face at the mention of his father cleared, with obvious effort, and he cleared his throat. 'Excellent. Who are we inviting? The Parkinsons, of course? Goyle? Crabbe?'

Narcissa paused before answering. The guest list was…unconventional, compared to the Malfoy family's usual associations. 'Well, some of them,' she said noncommittally.

'Can I see the list?' Draco pressed. 'I told Pansy I'd let her know, she was curious.'

With another sigh, Narcissa waved her wand and summoned the guest list from the carved secretary in the corner. 'Here,' she said, extending her hand. She was not sure how Draco would react to it.

Surely enough, Draco's eyes fairly bugged out of his head as he scanned the list. 'Are you serious?' he asked incredulously. 'This has to be a joke.' He shook his head, mouth formed into a sneer. 'We can't have these sort of people at our _house_! For an entire _weekend!_'

'Draco, it's important,' Narcissa tried to explain. 'Your father has to do something to increase his standing with the community; after Azkaban, we've been shunned. This will help.'

Draco scowled, clearly disapproving of the turn of events. 'I can't believe this,' he muttered. 'I just can't believe it.'

* * *

'Why were we invited, do you think?' Harry Potter mused, turning automatically to Hermione Granger, who he knew would have an answer.

Sure enough, she rolled her eyes. 'Honestly, Harry. You're the Ministry's answer to everything,' Hermione explained this in a patient, practiced way. 'Ever since Lucius Malfoy got out of Azkaban, he's been trying to get back in the Ministry's good graces. By inviting us, he's shown that he wants to regain the trust of the wizarding community.'

'Sounds to me like he's playing both sides of the field,' said Ron Weasley, gruffly. 'I don't trust him an inch.'

Hermione flipped the filigreed invitation over in her hands. 'I don't trust him either, Ron,' she said. 'But I still think we should go. It would be a perfect opportunity to do a little reconnaissance.'

'Hermione's right,' Harry nodded.

'As usual,' Ron grinned. 'I'm not saying we _shouldn't_ go, I'm just saying we should be careful. I don't trust any of that Malfoy lot.'

The trio lapsed into silence as they sat around the kitchen table in the Burrow. They were alone in the house, aside from Ginny, who was upstairs finishing her summer reading at Hermione's insistence. That very morning, an exquisite black owl had arrived, bearing four invitations, each rolled professionally and wrapped in green and black ribbon. On each cylinder of gold-veined parchment, names were beautifully scrawled: 'Mr. Harry Potter,' 'Mr. Ron Weasley,' 'Miss Ginevra Weasley,' and 'Miss Hermione Granger.' The contents were identical.

Harry read over the invitation once more.

'_Mr. and Mrs. Lucius Malfoy kindly request your presence at a hunting week-end, to be held at Malfoy Manor, near Salisbury, Wiltshire, on the 17th through the 19th of August._'

Harry shook his head. It was baffling, really; the Malfoys had always hated him, and he could not imagine why he would be invited to one of their posh get-togethers. Even more confusing was the invitation of the Weasleys, and Hermione even, who was Muggle-born. Draco Malfoy had always made his feelings clear on that subject; Harry was beginning to think Draco's constant 'mudblood' taunts were starting to sound tired and unoriginal. He wondered how on earth Hermione, Ron, and he were supposed to have civil relations with the Malfoys for an entire weekend.

His gaze landed on the one unopened invitation, incongruously delicate against the rough and well-worn wood planks of the Weasleys' kitchen table. Ginny still did not know about the party; Hermione had demanded that Ginny not be disturbed whilst studying for her all-important sixth-year.

Shrugging, and downing the rest of his tea, Harry turned to Ron. 'Wanna go do some flying?'

'Yeah,' Ron said, finishing his tea as well. 'You won't be bored, will you, Hermione?'

Hermione, who had already produced a huge school book from somewhere and opened it, shook her head with a smile.

* * *

Flipping the pages of her Charms textbook absently, Ginny Weasley sighed as her bedroom curtains fluttered in the open breeze. It was a languid summer day, too hot to do much of anything, and especially too hot to be studying for a far-off NEWT class. With envy, she heard the sounds of Ron and Harry flying around in the garden on their brooms. 

'Sod this,' she muttered, heaving herself up off her bed and tying her fiery long hair into a ponytail. With a graceful flick of her wand, her stack of textbooks jumped into her trunk and closed with a thud. Satisfied that her room was tidy, Ginny nodded to herself and flounced down the stairs.

'Hey, Hermione,' she said once she reached the kitchen.

'Hi, Ginny,' her bushy-haired friend replied with a casual wave. Hermione was clearly deep into whatever book she was reading; Ginny peered at it. The title said it was called _Archaic Translations of Runic Hieroglyphs_, a scholarly text that was beyond even NEWT-level. Hermione glanced up to meet Ginny's eye. 'You're not studying?'

'Not on such a gorgeous day! I tried, really I did, but I can't focus anymore. Hey, what's this?' Ginny noticed the beautifully-wrapped parchment with her name on it, lying on the table.

'Oh! You won't believe it,' Hermione said.

Her curiosity piqued, Ginny's fingers pulled off the green and black ribbons and unrolled the invitation, her eyes scanning quickly. She looked up at Hermione. 'Is this for real?'

Hermione nodded. 'We're all invited. You, me, Ron, and Harry.'

Ginny's hazel eyes widened with disbelief, then slowly narrowed in calculation as she turned over the invitation in her head. 'I wonder why,' she murmured. 'Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy? This is too strange for words.'

'I agree.'

'Are you going?' Ginny asked Hermione, half-hoping for no, half for yes.

'Yes,' said Hermione. 'I told the boys it might be a good way to gather some information on the Malfoy family, and they thought so, too.'

'That's because they do anything you tell them,' joked Ginny. 'Especially Ron.'

Hermione blushed. 'Yes, well…I really do think we should all go. After all, we'll be in a group, and safety in numbers, and all that.'

Ginny smiled. Now that it looked like she was going, a little flicker of excitement started in her chest. A hunting party…_What will we be hunting?_ she wondered. Ginny had never been to a country weekend before, but like anyone born and raised in England, she knew about them. Only the aristocracy did such things, and Ginny's family had never been aristocracy, which made their inclusion all the more strange.

A tingle of suspicion merged into her excitement. _Why did they really invite us? Draco must have had a fit. There must be some reason_. Ginny did not trust people automatically, and she did not trust Malfoys on principle. Ever since the horrible and traumatic events of her first year, with Tom Riddle's old diary, Ginny had been forced to do a lot of growing up. She was no longer naïve, and her mind often worked in very adult ways. In fact, even before the diary incident, Ginny had developed a certain craftiness to her character that was necessary for the youngest child and only daughter in a family full of boys.

With a slight smile of remembrance, Ginny remembered her Sorting at Hogwarts. The hat had considered putting her in Slytherin House. Ginny had protested vehemently, of course, and in the end the Hat had agreed that she was a true Gryffindor like all of her brothers; still, Ginny was well-aware of her Slytherin-like abilities to scheme, lie, and wile her way into and out of situations.

Sitting down at the table, Ginny decided she would rather discuss the hunting party than practice her flying skills, which was saying something for the significance of it. 'Hermione?' she said, attracting her friend's attention away from the book.

'Hmm?' With an air of reluctance, Hermione looked up again.

'What are we going to wear to this thing?' Ginny asked. It was a valid worry; she did not have many nice things, and she wondered if her 'good' clothes would stretch over an entire weekend.

'I don't know,' Hermione shrugged. 'I guess we'll need jeans, and tweeds, for hunting. Dress robes for the evening.'

'Yeah,' echoed Ginny. 'I have two sets of dress robes, I suppose they'll have to do.' Mentally, she categorized her own wardrobe: she had the robes from the Yule Ball, and for her birthday last year she had splurged on a stunning dress of brown taffeta that set off her hair and eyes to perfection. It had been on sale, off-the-rack, from Madame Malkin's, but her mother had altered it to fit properly. Shaking off her couture anxieties, Ginny brought her attention back to the table.

Hermione closed her book, settling her chin on her hand for a longer talk. 'What I really want to know is, who else is invited?'

* * *

'Are you going, sir?' said the sallow-faced Potions Master. 

'Yes, I think I will,' said Albus Dumbledore. 'Besides, someone has to keep an eye on Harry.'

'Potter's invited?' Severus Snape exclaimed, shock and loathing on his face. 'You're kidding.'

'No, I assure you, I am not,' replied Dumbledore with an inscrutable smile. 'Harry, along with Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, and Miss Hermione Granger, have all received invitations.'

'How do you know?' Snape spat, then with effort swallowed his anger. 'Meaning no offence, of course.'

'I have my ways,' said Dumbledore loftily. 'I'm rather looking forward to it, actually; it will be nice to get some fresh country air. Surely you agree, Severus?'

Snape scowled. Oh, it would have been fine, had the Potter brat not been invited, along with his insufferable friends. He wondered what in the world had possessed Lucius Malfoy to invite them to his home; certainly Malfoy wanted to make amends with the Ministry, but this was taking it a bit far. 'I suppose,' he finally said to Dumbledore, and then excused himself from the table at the Voodoo Café, one of Diagon Alley's better coffee shops.

Stalking down the street, wearing intimidating robes of all black despite the summer sunshine, Snape pondered the upcoming hunt. It would not be the first time he had been invited to a Malfoy function, of course; his position as young Draco's Head of House at Hogwarts guaranteed him some measure of respect. However, Snape also knew he would never be considered an equal, not really. He was a half-blood, and even if he was a Death Eater, in the inner ranks of the Dark Lord, he still detected the undertone of snobbery from Lucius Malfoy, like a stain on an otherwise good tablecloth.

And then, there was Narcissa. Snape sighed loudly through his nose. The lovely Mrs. Malfoy had been one year beneath him at school, in the same Slytherin House. To the outside observer, they might not have known one another well. Snape was never popular, even amongst his house-mates, and spent most of his time on books about the Dark Arts. Narcissa, on the other hand, had been popular, beautiful, charming, and not so clever as to deter admirers.

But they had been secret allies, Severus and Narcissa. He helped her with her schoolwork; she graced him with her company, with her wit and well-bred charm. Ever since he was thirteen, Snape had been hopelessly in love with her, and would have done literally anything for her. It was a most un-Slytherin frailty that, fortunately, no one was aware of. After her marriage to Lucius Malfoy, Snape had realized he would never have a chance with her, and had settled himself down for long-lasting bitterness. Over the years, his lovesickness had congealed into a low pain, always under the surface, hardly ever twisting or writhing itself into conscious attention. Snape even made sure to keep an eye on Draco Malfoy, once he entered Hogwarts and was sorted into Slytherin, not because Draco was the son of a fellow Death Eater but because Draco was the son of Narcissa.

With a grimace, Snape reached his destination of the post office, and hastily made out his RSVP to _Mr._ and Mrs. Malfoy. 'Lucius, I would be delighted,' the quill scrawled in messy black letters. 'All hail.' His last reference was to the Dark Lord, although from the sounds of it Lucius Malfoy was not playing that open game any longer. Snape briefly wondered what the Dark Lord would do about Lucius Malfoy. He had sprung him from the wizard prison of Azkaban, but Lucius had not taken direct part in any Death Eater activities since then. Either old Malfoy was out of favor (Snape hoped for that) or he was doing more subtle, undercover work.

As the post owl flew away with the note, Snape watched it with glinting black eyes until it disappeared into the sky. A whole weekend at the Malfoys…with the guest list Dumbledore had described, strange things were sure to happen.

* * *

**A/N:** This is a work in progress, and I will do my best to update when I can…however I feel compelled to alert everyone to the fact that I am just moving overseas at the moment, and my internet access is…goosy, at best. So just take my word for it that I will not abandon this story, and thank you to everyone who reads and reviews! 


	2. Arrivals

**Author's Notes:** Big thanks to everyone who reviewed! I regret I will not have time to respond to everyone individually, but please know that I appreciate every word of encouragement, advice, criticism, whatever! _Lily's Lil Sis, Pussin Boots, Possum132, KrazieChickadee, Skylar11, Lilith-Kayden, TragicFantasy, Voldy's pink teddie, Tanelle_, _ChuckTheGingy,_ and _The Enchanted Teakettle, _cheers to you all.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**Arrivals**

Draco Malfoy slammed the door of his wardrobe shut in frustration. It was already noon, and the hunting party guests would be arriving at any moment. He wanted to wear his sharpest tweed coat, but could not find it. He brought out his wand. '_Accio_ tweed coat!' Nothing.

'Gringle!' Draco snarled, summoning the house-elf. 'Where's my tweed coat?'

'I do not know, young master, I taked it for cleaning, downstairs, but I do not know where it has gone—'

'Well, you useless thing, go and _find_ it for me!' Draco shouted. He was in a foul temper, and the coat was the least of his worries. His arch-nemesis Harry Potter was coming to his house, along with Potter's simpering little goody-goody friends. It was enough to sicken anyone.

'Yes, of course, master, I will go now,' Gringle cowered, hitting himself once with one of Draco's shoes, and then snapping his little elf fingers and disappearing.

With the house-elf out of the way, Draco swiftly buttoned his fine white cotton shirt, and tucked it into his khaki riding trousers. He glanced in the mirror at himself, satisfied; his platinum hair hung perfectly, as ever, and the outfit made him look tall and capable, even without the tweed coat. He felt like the young lord of the house, which was exactly what he was.

The hunting party had created a greater disturbance in Draco's state of mind than he cared to admit. Sure, his mother had invited several people who were perfectly acceptable, such as his Potions teacher, Professor Snape, and his fellow Slytherin classmate Pansy Parkinson. Draco knew that his mother and Mrs. Parkinson had been scheming for years to get the two children betrothed to one another, but Draco kept putting off the inevitable. He wanted some freedom before getting married.

Pansy was a fine girl, and came from a good family, and she had even turned out quite pretty, with her glossy black bobbed hair, upturned nose, and wide olive brown eyes. However, Draco was too familiar with Pansy; there was no thrill of the chase, no excitement, no real interest. It was safe, and deep inside Draco longed to do something that was unsafe.

As Draco admired himself in the mirror, a harsh knock at his bedroom door caused him to jump a little. A voice penetrated the large wooden door. 'Draco.'

Draco felt his mind go to mush. It was his father's voice, commanding, unforgiving, cold.

Without waiting for a response, the door opened and Lucius Malfoy stepped into his son's chambers. He was slightly shorter than his progeny, but his stature was so arrogant that no one ever noticed. 'I suggest you make yourself presentable,' Lucius said. 'Remember, you are a Malfoy.'

'How could I forget?' Draco muttered.

'What?'

'Nothing, father. Of course I'll be presentable, I wouldn't dream of being otherwise on such an important occasion for you.'

Mollified, Lucius nodded once at his son. 'I came to instruct you to be polite to our guests, every last one of them. I know it is especially _distasteful_ to have Potter and his blood traitor friends under our roof, but we as a family must do something to reconstruct our reputation.'

Draco had been afraid of this. He had felt the sting of social rejection even at Hogwarts, after his father had been tossed into Azkaban for being a Death Eater, and now it would be even worse if Lucius decided to reject the Dark Lord. Playing both sides was never a smart thing to do, and Draco did not want his family and position in danger. However, he knew that to say something to his father would be useless. To Lucius, Draco was too young to have an opinion, and always would be.

'Yes, father,' Draco said, biting back his sulk until he was alone again.

'Good,' Lucius snapped. 'And do get yourself together, Miss Parkinson has arrived downstairs.'

Draco turned away. He loved his father, but he hated him, too. Draco knew he would never be good enough in Lucius's eyes, never quite worthy to carry on the Malfoy name. He knew he was weak where his father was strong, that he lacked conviction where Lucius was passionately involved in the cause of the Dark Lord. Yet, Draco was proud of his father, proud that he _was_ a Malfoy. When he was away from home, during his Hogwarts years, he had negotiated his social place based on his family's name and money. It was the only way he could have some sort of identity, some sort of power over his own life.

Now, with Lucius's disgrace, all that power seemed to be fading. Draco did not know what to do with himself.

With a pop, his house-elf Gringle reappeared, this time bearing Draco's tweed jacket. 'About time,' Draco said, wresting the jacket from the house-elf's placating fingers and putting it on. Finally ready, he glanced in the mirror one more time, pocketed his wand, and walked briskly down to the entrance hall, where their Floo-connected fireplace was located. Pansy Parkinson stood there, with her French designer trunk, dressed in an elegant long green coat that hugged her figure, but made her appear shorter than she really was.

'Draco!' she waved with a manicured hand.

'Hullo, Pansy,' said Draco, sullenly. He stared a place on the marble floor, near her feet, as two house-elves levitated the trunk up to her guest room. He sighed, and glanced up to meet her eyes. 'You're never going to believe who else is invited,' he said, as he took her arm and led her into the parlour.

* * *

Hermione Granger was nervous. It was not unusual for her to become tense at times, particularly when her schoolwork was concerned, but this time her anxiousness was social. She hated the feeling. She stood in the sitting room of the Burrow, her trunk neatly packed away for the weekend, her hands clasped together. It would be the first time she had ever been to something like this, and she was acutely grateful that her friends would be there with her. It was not a pleasant feeling, to be a guest in a house where she knew the owners considered her dirty, unworthy, low.

With a sigh, Hermione pushed a strand of hair behind her ears and shifted on her high-heeled feet. It was a testament to her anxiety that she had fixed her hair so that it was glossy and smooth, and put on her nicest wool skirt and a pretty pink cashmere blazer. She did not want the Malfoys to be able to spot a single thing wrong with her. A glance at her watch, and she called out to the boys. 'Harry! Ron! Let's go!'

'Coming, Hermione!' Ron's voice echoed down the stairs, followed by a loud clatter. Harry and Ron tumbled down the Burrow's crooked staircase, trunks in tow. 'Where's Ginny?' Ron asked loudly.

'Here,' Ginny popped her head in from the kitchen. Hermione noted that Ginny, too, had made an effort with her appearance. She was glad she was not the only one with insecurities about a weekend at the Malfoys'.

'I'll go first,' Harry volunteered, stepping toward the fireplace with a handful of Floo powder. 'Ron, you follow me.'

Ron nodded resolutely, provoking a sigh of exasperation from Hermione. Honestly, if the boys were going to be overprotective and mistrustful, it was going to be a miserable weekend for everyone. They had to put the Malfoys at ease; otherwise, how were they to get good information on the enemy?

In a flash of green flame, Harry disappeared, followed by Ron. Hermione stepped forward, exchanged a look with Ginny, and then threw down her Floo powder. 'Malfoy Manor!' she shouted.

Several spinning rooms later, Hermione stepped into a beautiful marble-floored front hall, with a grand staircase splitting up the centre, walls covered in moving paintings of blonde wizards. Harry had his wand brandished, and Ron stood gawping up at the crystal chandelier, envy written across his face. Ginny stepped out of the fireplace several seconds later, setting her shoulders in pride.

With a quick '_Evanesco_,' Hermione's clothes were cleaned of their ash residue, and she performed the favour for her friends, who were too distracted to think about keeping their clothing clean. Then, she had a proper look around her. It was exactly what she had imagined the Malfoy house to be: cold, echoing, elegant and tasteful in every proportion. The architecture held the grace of antiquity, the proportions of the hall mathematically perfect. Hermione felt like she was in a museum.

A pair of exquisitely carved double doors swung open in front of her, and a tall, refined blonde woman stepped forward. _Narcissa Malfoy._ Hermione recognised her from the Quidditch World Cup, all those years ago. Narcissa cleared her throat, capturing their attention, and began to speak. 'Welcome to our home,' she said. 'I am Mrs. Lucius Malfoy.' The name was given as though it were an aristocratic title, and Hermione suppressed the urge to curtsey to Mrs. Malfoy.

Harry stepped up, ever the leader, and extended his hand. 'Mrs. Malfoy,' he nodded to her. Hermione was next, and she held her ground as she met Narcissa's eye. The older woman gave her an appraising look, and Hermione was surprised to see a note of satisfaction, of genuine welcome, in those icy blue eyes. Ron and Ginny also gave genteel greetings (Molly Weasley had given them each strict instructions to be on their best behaviour), and Narcissa gestured into the parlour behind her.

'Please,' she said. 'Come in, the house-elves will take your trunks up to your rooms.' Narcissa walked into a large, blue brocade-upholstered room with light woods and many gold candles. 'You all know my son, Draco, and Miss Parkinson, from Hogwarts.'

Pansy was sitting on a chair, holding a bone-china saucer and teacup. She did not rise, but merely nodded at the four newcomers, her gaze pausing for a split-second on Harry.

'Hello, Pansy!' said Ginny.

Draco, standing by the window, turned and gave an elegant bow. To Hermione, it seemed sarcastic. 'Welcome,' he said. 'We are delighted to have you.' He glanced over to his mother, as though to say 'See? I'm being polite.'

Hermione sighed. It was going to be a long weekend, she thought as she sat on the sofa and accepted a cup of Earl Grey tea from a house-elf with a soft muttered 'Thank you.'

* * *

The storm came in quickly, whipping up out of the sky like black meringue, thunderclouds piling high on top of one another. It was highly unusual, for the west country of England was not known for extreme weather, but strange climactic occurrences were happening all over the world, these days. It fit Snape's mood perfectly, as he Apparated on the Malfoys' front lawn. Albus Dumbledore popped out of thin air beside him. Snape was gruffly silent as he rang the bell, said nothing when a house-elf opened the door, refused to reply to Dumbledore's comments on the lovely crystal chandelier. He was even taciturn when Narcissa welcomed them into the front parlour, afraid his voice might break in front of her.

Snape regarded the rest of the company, an awkward dynamic suffusing the room to match the gathering storm outside. There was Potter, refusing to sit down, standing protectively in front of Ginny Weasley. There was the dim-witted Ron Weasley, glaring about suspiciously. The insufferable know-it-all, Hermione Granger, sipped a cup of tea; Snape was surprised to see that she had done something with her bushy hair to turn it into sleek curls. Draco sat next to Pansy Parkinson on the sofa, looking bored. It was a group of people he would never have expected to see together in any social situation, let alone a famous Malfoy hunting party.

'Professor Dumbledore!' Hermione Granger noticed the newly-arrived invitees. She stood up, smoothing her skirt.

Harry, too, lit up. 'Professor, we didn't know you would be here!' Snape tried not to roll his eyes. It really was sickening, the way Potter had wormed his way into being the Headmaster's pet. He had got away with all kinds of outrageous things, during his years at Hogwarts, and Snape was resentful. _Like father, like son_, he thought acrimoniously.

'Ah, yes, this is the second time Mrs. Malfoy has played the gracious hostess to me,' Dumbledore winked at Narcissa, who did not respond. 'It is always a pleasure.'

Snape felt certain that Dumbledore was stretching the truth about the pleasure of this visit.

'Well,' Narcissa brought her hands together. 'Lucius should be arriving home at any moment. Dinner will be at eight; Draco, dear, won't you show the Headmaster to his suite?'

Draco stood with a resentful expression. 'Yes, Mother.'

'Meanwhile, I would invite you all to dress for dinner.' Narcissa nodded her head at each person.

The younger guests filed out silently, leaving Snape alone with Narcissa. She turned to him, her face a studied blank. 'Where is Lucius?' Snape asked softly.

'At the Ministry,' she replied, just as quietly.

'This was his idea? This ridiculous guest list?'

'No,' she said, 'it was mine.'

Snape sighed. 'Narcissa…' He stepped closer to her. He longed to comfort her, tell her she would be taken care of, take away the pain of a convict husband who cared nothing about her. The old hatred of Lucius Malfoy reared its ugly head, and Snape wished the man would just disappear, leave Snape's lovely Narcissa to seek comfort in _his_ arms.

'Severus, don't,' Narcissa held up a white hand. 'It will be fine. My family is falling apart, and I had to act. This is the way forward. The Malfoys will survive.'

'The Malfoys?' Snape's lip curled distastefully. 'Or the Blacks?'

Narcissa's eyes softened. 'I will survive,' she whispered. Finally, she put her hand on Snape's arm; a gesture of friendship, of comfort, but Snape could not disguise the heat he felt under the pressure of her flesh.

A pair of eyes watched them, peeking through the open crack in the door.


	3. The Dinner

**Author's Notes: **Big thanks to my readers and reviewers – _KrazieChickadee, Tanelle, The Enchanted Teakettle, LavenderBrown77, Possum132, _and _TragicFantasy_. I appreciate all your kind comments!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**The Dinner**

Ginny's guest room was bigger than her entire house. Vaulted ceiling, arched windows, massive king-sized bed, sitting room, balcony, large marble bathroom…all in elegant green and gold. She tried her best not to feel intimidated, or envious. Ginny could only imagine the distress of her brother Ron, for whom their family's economic situation was already a sore point.

She, however, could get used to this. Ginny had never lacked self-confidence, a necessity when standing up to her elder brothers, and she usually took a page out of the book of the twins, Fred and George: be memorable, daring, never boring. Anything is possible if you have the nerve to do it. And Ginny had nerve, in spades. She put on her stunning multi-tonal brown evening dress, and stood in front of the full-length gilt mirror, gathering her poise. In her imagination, the dress was one-of-a-kind, made just for her; perhaps she had rare blue diamonds around her neck instead of a simple gold heirloom chain. 'You belong,' she whispered to herself. 'You can do anything.'

Throwing her shoulders back, Ginny slipped into the hallway. She turned the corner toward the grand staircase, only to run straight into a tall, thin, but strong male figure. Fingers gripped her arms and pushed her back, and Ginny looked up into the pale face of Draco Malfoy.

'Well, well. If it isn't the littlest Weasley,' he sneered.

'Let go of me, Malfoy,' Ginny hissed impatiently.

He obeyed, stepping back, appraising her as though she were an object, not a person. 'You clean up nicely. Who would have guessed?'

'You've always lacked imagination,' she retorted.

'I assure you, my imagination is in working order,' Draco said, lips turned up as he looked somewhere south of her face.

'You're revolting. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm obliged to attend this little dinner.'

To her surprise, Draco held out his arm with a smirk. 'Allow me to escort you.'

Ginny narrowed her eyes, wondering how to respond to this obvious challenge. She decided to call his bluff. 'I would be delighted,' she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and they walked down the hall and descended the stairs together. Ginny was a little surprised how natural it felt; Draco undoubtedly had a lot of practise with girls on his arm.

When they entered the opulent dining room, Ginny saw Hermione and Pansy, already seated, at opposite ends of the gleaming ebony table. Ron, Harry, and Dumbledore stood together, Dumbledore sipping on a brandy with an absent smile on his face. Narcissa was absent, as was Professor Snape. Ginny anticipated odd dinner conversation, with such a mishmash of guests.

Pansy glared at Draco and Ginny as they came in, as did Harry. Ginny recognised the flash of jealousy in his green eyes, and saw Harry nudge Ron with his elbow. _Great_, she thought. _With Ron on the case, he'll have me marrying Draco Malfoy and betraying the whole family before the second course of dinner_. She removed her hand from Draco's arm and found her seat, between the place-cards of Professor Snape and Harry.

Snape entered the room a few moments later, in his usual black robes, and he stood behind his chair, long fingers clasping the top of it. He was followed by a house-elf who rang a bell.

'Mr. and Mrs. Lucius Malfoy,' the elf squeaked.

The double-doors opened once again, and Lucius swept into the room, Narcissa on his arm, both extraordinarily elegant in dress robes. It was the signal for supper to begin, and the remaining men stood behind their chairs, as well.

'Welcome,' said Lucius, cold voice echoing across the glittering dining table. 'I am honoured to host this hunting week-end, and pleased you all could come.' He so lacked sincerity, Ginny wondered why he even bothered to try. Lucius left his wife at one end of the table, and walked slowly to his seat at the head chair, a throne-like piece with the Malfoy crest engraved into it.

Ginny watched the elder Malfoy, loathing him. He was the reason she had been traumatised, scarred for life, when she was eleven. He had planted Tom Riddle's diary in her school things. He had tried to destroy her, and her family. The thought made Ginny's blood boil. If only she could curse him with impunity -- she would not hesitate to kill Lucius Malfoy if she got the chance. He was the sort of person who did not deserve to live.

* * *

At the other end of the table, Narcissa Malfoy regarded her husband with a steely gaze. The humiliation, the pain, the anxiety, the danger…none of it was what she had bargained for when she married into the Malfoy family. Lucius had disgraced her; he was not even an effective Death Eater. She doubted the Dark Lord held her husband in very high esteem. If only Lucius were out of the way, Narcissa might be able to turn things around, let her darling Draco take over the name of Malfoy. If only.

* * *

Harry looked at Lucius Malfoy with deep mistrust. It seemed that Lucius had been involved in most of the horrible events of his life; he was there when Voldemort was reborn, there to put Riddle's diary into the possession of his best friend's sister, there at the Department of Mysteries to lead the Death Eaters. At this last, Harry felt real hatred rise within him; Lucius had been partially responsible for the death of Sirius. Harry was without his godfather, left alone again, and Lucius sat there, calm and unharmed. It was infuriating.

* * *

Draco refused to look at his father when he sat down. He had seen the dismissive look Lucius had given his mother, the way he cast her feelings aside. Draco knew that he himself would never be good enough, not even if he became the Dark Lord's most loyal Death Eater. It was no use. As long as Lucius was alive, Draco would face disapproval. 

All Draco had ever wanted was to be loved and admired; what he got from his father was scorn. Lately, Draco had begun to think it should be the other way around. Lucius had been the one to get caught as a Death Eater and sent to Azkaban, frittering away the family's fortune to support Lord Voldemort's cause. Draco had begun to think that perhaps it was time for a change.

* * *

Severus Snape kept his face carefully blank when he met Lucius's eyes across the table. He could feel the disapproval, the snobbery, oozing off the man. It was only Snape's position as the Dark Lord's trusted spy, and his position as head of Slytherin House, that allowed his invitation to Malfoy's home. Snape despised Lucius, especially now that Narcissa was suffering for her husband's sins. A brief fantasy floated through Snape's mind, with Lucius out of the way and he, Snape, taking his place next to Narcissa. Protecting her, loving her, guiding her son Draco…He snapped out of it. It was not possible.

* * *

Hermione raised her wine glass politely when Lucius Malfoy sat at the head of the table, and decided to focus on her meal rather than dwell on the nasty character to whom she owed it. As a dainty sip of expensive sauvignon blanc slid down her throat, the front bell chimed. 

The guests at the table looked up, around each other. 'Who could that be?' Lucius growled.

Narcissa intervened by ordering a house-elf to send the visitors away. To Hermione's surprise, the house-elf came scurrying back in almost immediately. 'It is the Dark Lord,' the elf piped.

Every single person at the table stood with a great clatter. Harry and Ron had their wands brandished; Snape looked alarmed; Dumbledore had that calm, serious look on his face. Then, as one mass of very well-dressed people, the company poured and tumbled into the front hall.

Hermione gasped when she saw Lord Voldemort, in person, for the first time. He was very tall, thin, cloaked in black. But she stared at his face: flat, serpentine features and glowing crimson eyes. She could see his once-handsome bone structure beneath the stretched white skin, marred by the terrible warp of his brow and eyes. Voldemort's eyes flashed over the dinner party with interest, noting Harry, and even Dumbledore. Hermione was puzzled that Voldemort did not show any upset. _I thought Dumbledore was the only wizard he ever feared…_

Next to her, she could feel Harry tense, noticed his jumpy fingers clutching his wand. Hermione groaned inwardly, and drew her own wand. Was this the end? Would Harry and Voldemort fight to the death, right here, right now?

'_Expelliarmus_!' Harry screamed.

Voldemort did not attempt to move, did not attempt to block the spell, did not even blink. Hermione realised why; no jet of red light had issued from Harry's wand. It was as though they were in a magical dead zone.

'Tsk, tsk, Potter,' Lucius Malfoy drawled. 'I would ask you to refrain from duelling in my home.' He turned to Voldemort. 'My Lord,' Lucius said, bowing. 'Greetings.'

'Lucius,' Voldemort said softly. 'I see the Aurors have placed a spell fog upon your house. How lucky for Potter.'

Hermione understood immediately. _Of course,_ she thought. _The Ministry has placed limits on the kind of magic done at Malfoy Manor. That means no offensive spells, or anything considered to be duelling. _She had read about this sort of thing. It meant that Lucius Malfoy was essentially under house arrest. It also meant that Harry, Dumbledore, and Voldemort were all shackled by the same magic. Hermione felt suddenly relieved. No one would have to die tonight.

'What can we help you with, Tom?' Dumbledore said, moving in front of Harry.

Voldemort hissed with distaste. 'Always protecting your precious students, Dumbledore? Doesn't stop you from using them as bait, though, does it?'

Dumbledore shrugged. 'No,' he said simply.

This apparently angered Harry once again, and he jumped forward, trying to get around Dumbledore's figure, attempting to curse Voldemort once again.

Hermione reached out with her hand to snatch Harry's arm, pulling him back. 'No, Harry!' she said through ground teeth. 'We're under spell fog. It won't work. You can't harm him, and he can't harm you.'

'Listen to your clever friend, Potter,' Voldemort said, peering curiously at Hermione. She shrank back; the last thing she wanted was to bring the Dark Lord's attention to her. Then, as if things could not get worse, Hermione noticed another figure standing behind Voldemort, who now stepped forward.

'Bella?' Lucius said.

It was, indeed, the notorious Bellatrix Lestrange, dressed in fine black robes, her dark hair scraggly about her hollowed face. She grinned broadly at Lucius, inspiring a look of mania. On the other side of Hermione, Ron now tensed, and she had to grab his arm, too.

'Greetings, dear brother-in-law,' Bellatrix cackled. Her voice was low and hoarse, as though still out of use from her years in Azkaban, or perhaps she smoked too much. 'And Cissy!' The witch stepped forward to embrace her sister, who had not lost her poise in the face of the unexpected visitors.

'Good evening, Bella,' Narcissa replied, pulling away from her sister to dip a bow to Voldemort. 'My Lord.'

Voldemort inclined his head.

'Please,' Narcissa said, for the first time sounding a tiny bit desperate, 'won't you join us?'

Hermione did her best not to gape in shock. Dinner with Lord Voldemort? This night kept getting stranger and stranger. She felt sure the man (or monster) would decline, but she was in for another surprise.

'We would be honoured,' said Voldemort smoothly. Bellatrix looked sharply at her master, astonished. She was not the only one; there were expressions of bewilderment on everyone else's faces, as well. Hermione thought that Voldemort had done it on purpose, just to cause discomfort.

'Er, right, yes, very good,' Narcissa said. She snapped her fingers, summoning a house-elf. 'Two more places at the table! Immediately!' The elf sprang into action, and Hermione felt sorry for it. The Malfoys must be a horrible family to work for. 'Let us retire to the dining room,' Narcissa called out, authority in her voice as the lady of the house.

In tremendously uncomfortable silence, the guests filed back into the dining room, to find two more place settings, near Lucius, fortunately. Hermione sat, smoothing her rose-coloured robes of any wrinkles, between Draco Malfoy and Albus Dumbledore. She met Ginny Weasley's eye across the table, and raised her eyebrows. This was, without a doubt, the dinner party from hell.

* * *

Narcissa was on the verge of a mental breakdown. She held her features in calm strength, let no fear into her blue eyes, and stayed in command of herself at her end of the table. But inside, turmoil reigned. Everything had gone wrong, and it was Lucius's fault. His association with the Dark Lord had wreaked havoc on her carefully planned party, and now (Narcissa blinked rapidly, three times) she had Voldemort _himself_ at her dining table, along with her crazy sister Bellatrix, along with Albus Dumbledore, along with Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Narcissa never thought she would live to see the day. 

The gentle clinking of silverware and goblets, the shifting of chairs, the little noises of a silent supper grated on Narcissa's nerves. No one dared to say anything. It was horrible. She did not have the reputation of the wizarding community's most gracious hostess for no reason, and she was unaccustomed to awkwardness in all its forms. Gathering her social courage, Narcissa spoke.

'Lucius, dear, is this wine from the vintage cellar? It's an excellent choice.'

Eleven pairs of eyes turned to stare at her, but Narcissa's composure did not crack.

At his end of the table, Lucius swallowed and nodded. 'Yes, my dear, it is the vintage. I was saving it for this auspicious occasion.'

'The low notes of vanilla are a fine complement,' spoke up another voice. Narcissa saw with another slight shock that young Ginny Weasley was speaking. 'I would say it was a rainy year for the harvest.'

Narcissa felt like cheering the girl. Although she was a Weasley, and hence a lower form of life, Narcissa had to admire her gumption, as well as her fine taste for wine.

'To discern that sort of thing, you must have a sensitive tongue,' Draco said.

'You have no idea,' Ginny replied.

There was another awkward silence. Narcissa felt the mood floundering, and again made an effort. 'Albus,' she addressed Dumbledore, 'is it not true that Hogwarts has a vintage cellar, reserved for the use of the staff?' It was an old rumour that had circulated in Narcissa's schooldays, fuelled primarily by the constant intoxicated state of the then-professor of Muggle Studies.

Dumbledore smiled. 'Indeed, it is true, though I have only seen it for myself four times in all my years as a teacher. The first time it was opened was the nine-hundred year anniversary…'

Narcissa felt her muscles relax as Dumbledore continued to speak. She had successfully manoeuvred the subject to Hogwarts Castle and its many magical features, something which every single person in attendance had in common. The subject was innocuous enough, and from then on the dinner went almost smoothly. Narcissa was even able to taste the food that went into her mouth.

When the company adjourned to the drawing room for tea and brandy, Narcissa felt her confidence as a hostess rise. She had gotten them all through dinner without arguments, curses, or anything worse. In a burst of self-pride, she rather thought there should be some sort of award or recognition of her valiant efforts. Surely no one else in the wizarding world could claim to have hosted Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter at the same dinner party.

* * *

_In the next chapter:_

'_A magical storm? What's that?' Pansy Parkinson asked._

'_It is a highly volatile weather system that includes thunder, lightning, rain, high winds, and such electrical force that Apparation is made impossible,' Dumbledore explained._

'_What does that mean?' Ron interjected._

'_It means that we are trapped under the same roof. Not one of us can leave.' Voldemort's cold voice sounded amused._


	4. Murder Most Foul

**Author's Notes: **To my reviewers, you all are great! _Pussin Boots, The Enchanted Teakettle, Delayed Poet, Possum132, Lynda O Tron, ParadoxofInfinity, Miss Rachel Weasley, LavenderBrown77, Kougaismyhomeboy, _and _TragicFantasy_, many thanks!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Murder Most Foul**

Harry intentionally stayed on the other side of the Malfoys' drawing room, letting the other guests separate him from Voldemort. Ron loyally stayed at his side, grumbling under his breath. In a 'normal' tense situation, Harry stayed stoic, the strength of morality on his side, good and evil delineated into a fighting spirit. However, this was one situation for which none of his prior experience had prepared him. To be polite to Lord Voldemort, his parents' murderer; to be civil at a house belonging to a Death Eater; to refrain from battling it out when every instinct screamed at him to 'finish Voldemort!' while he had the chance. His scar throbbed with a dull ache. But with the spell fog in place, Harry was powerless.

He noticed Hermione, grouped in feminine solidarity with Ginny and Pansy; Dumbledore casually chatting with Draco; Bellatrix Lestrange clutching her sister's arm and whispering something. The black-clad figure of Lord Voldemort stood tall in the corner, his crimson eyes, curiously, on Hermione.

'I don't like this one little bit,' Ron muttered next to him, grasping a glass of swirling brandy with a fist so tight, Harry wondered it did not break like that time with Aunt Marge.

'Me neither,' Harry replied. 'But I don't see any way out of it.'

'There has to be something,' Ron insisted. 'We could alert the Ministry, tell them to lift the fog so you can kill – kill You-Know-Who.'

'I don't know, Ron,' Harry said. 'I doubt an owl could fly through this weather.' He gestured toward a rain-lashed window. The outer edge of the looming storm was striking them at last, and Harry could hear the rising winds howling along the sides of the Manor. 'I doubt we'll get much hunting in tomorrow,' he remarked wryly.

'Did you see Ginny come in with Draco?' Ron changed the subject abruptly.

'Yeah,' Harry muttered.

'What do you suppose that was about? What's that git after, anyway?'

'Dunno. But I have bigger things to worry about. No offence, Ron,' Harry said, seeing the slightly murderous expression on his best mate's face.

'I know,' Ron sighed. 'Hard to concentrate on much at all, with You-Know-Who in the room.' In unison, they glanced back over at Voldemort, who still stood with that radiance of evil.

'Lucius, I would leave,' Voldemort suddenly spoke, and a hush fell over the room as he did. 'But, with this weather…'

'Your presence is always welcome in my home, my Lord,' Lucius replied through gritted teeth.

Bellatrix giggled with the mad hysteria of a hyena. 'Oh, Lucius, how terrible for you! To endure our _Lord_ and _master's_ company for the duration. How unexpected.' She laughed again. 'You'll have to host us, along with the rest of your rag-tag little group. Fellow refugees from the storm.' Her dark eyes looked around the room, dancing across Harry who glared back at her, the witch who had killed his godfather.

'Now, Bella,' Narcissa interjected. 'Surely you don't think it's _that_ kind of storm.'

'Oh, I'm afraid it is,' spoke up Dumbledore. 'My left knee is acting up, and it always does that when in the direct path of a magical storm.'

'A magical storm? What's that?' Pansy Parkinson asked.

'It is a highly volatile weather system that includes thunder, lightning, rain, high winds, and such electrical force that all magic, including Apparition, is made impossible,' Dumbledore explained.

'What does that mean?' Ron interjected.

'It means that we are trapped under the same roof. Not one of us can leave.' Voldemort's cold voice sounded amused.

Harry stifled a groan of dismay. 'Headmaster, sir,' he addressed Dumbledore, deliberately ignoring Voldemort, 'how long do magical storms last?'

'I heard of one that lasted three weeks,' Dumbledore said, sounding unconcerned. 'But I feel sure this one will clear up in a few days.'

Harry's heart sank even further. No Apparition, no owls, no magic, no brooms…'What about the Floo Network?' he said aloud.

'I'm afraid, Mr. Potter, that the Ministry has removed my house from the Floo Network,' Lucius Malfoy said. 'It was opened only for your arrival, and then the wards were re-cast.' Malfoy had a sour, triumphant expression. In that moment, Harry hated the man more than ever.

'Great,' Harry muttered. As soon as Voldemort and Bellatrix had shown up at the door, Harry's suspicions had been aroused. Now, in the path of an oncoming magical storm, he was unable to use his wand, and his worst enemy stood in front of him…with each passing moment, Harry doubted the wisdom of accepting the original invitation. 'And how exactly am I supposed to trust you? This could be a set-up!'

'That's right!' Ron agreed. He pointed an accusing finger at Lucius Malfoy. 'This is a trick! You mean to kill us, don't you!'

The room erupted into an outraged roar. Protestations of innocence and accusations of guilt flew around, until Hermione's clear, rational voice broke through the squabbling crowd.

'Everyone, just _be quiet!_' she commanded loudly. The clarity of her tone demanded nothing less than total attention. 'There is nothing any of us can do,' she said in her typical reasonable manner. 'You can't create, or predict, magical storms. This is unfortunate luck, but I suggest we all act like adults, and when it's over, we can go our separate ways.'

'Well said, Miss Granger,' Dumbledore nodded. From outside, a clap of thunder rattled the windowpanes. The storm was descending in a fury, to match the inner temper in Harry's chest that cried out for vengeance, against Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, and most of all Lord Voldemort.

At the anticlimactic truce, the party fell silent once more. It was thirteen seconds later that the lights blew out.

* * *

The drawing room plunged into stifling blackness. 

There was a thud, a muffled groan.

A glittering crash of glass.

Hollow metal on wood.

A great loud bang with a sharp report, jumping through the shadows.

A strange gurgling sound infiltrated the darkness.

Then, the lights flickered back on.

* * *

Voldemort blinked once, then again, as his serpentine eyes readjusted to the light. A very curious sight greeted him. Lucius Malfoy was face-down on the fine silk carpet, blood pooling around his head. The hilt of a dagger stuck out of the back of his neck, and from his vantage point Voldemort could see a small but distinctive hole in the man's left temple. He looked around. Ah, yes, there it was. Smoking in the middle of the floor was a genuine Muggle revolver. Voldemort had almost forgotten what they looked like; not since he read gangster comics as a boy had he considered the destructive power of a gun. 

More odd details jumped out to Voldemort's keen eyes. A teacup, Lucius's, presumably, lay smashed next to him, a tiny brown pool of the liquid still steaming in the unbroken saucer. Then, to complicate matters, to the right of Lucius's head lay a gleaming brass candlestick on top of a sturdy length of rope. Voldemort allowed his brow to furrow ever so slightly. It was then that he turned his attention to his fellow guests.

It was as though a freezing spell had been cast over the room. Eleven people stood stock-still, staring down at the lifeless form of their host.

After several more seconds of shock, Pansy Parkinson started to cry. Her quiet sobs broke the silence, and Narcissa rushed to her husband, shaking him. 'Lucius!' she cried. 'Lucius! No! No!'

'Cissy,' Bellatrix grabbed her sister's shoulder with a firm hand. 'Pull back, Cissy.'

'No one move,' Dumbledore interrupted forcefully. Voldemort saw immediately what the old man was thinking, and once more he gave the old codger his grudging respect. Even if he hated Dumbledore, Voldemort was man enough to admit the elderly Headmaster was no fool.

'What are you talking about?' Narcissa cried, although her face was strangely tearless.

'He's been murdered!' Draco exclaimed unnecessarily.

'Calm, please,' Dumbledore said. He met Voldemort's gaze, and for one surreal moment, there was rapport between them. Voldemort quickly realised that any person in this room could be guilty of the crime; he himself had one of the better motives for wanting Lucius dead. But then, so did everyone else…his red eyes moved one-by-one across each person, seeing motives everywhere. Lucius Malfoy had been an unpopular fellow to Death Eater and Ministry official alike. For a brief moment, Voldemort marvelled that the man had managed to stay alive for as long as he had.

Dumbledore continued. 'Someone has committed a grievous crime,' he said. 'Our host has been murdered, and someone in this room is guilty.'

That obnoxious Potter kid scoffed aloud. 'It's obvious, isn't it?' He pointed straight at Voldemort. 'He's already a murderer.'

Voldemort glared back with a dour expression. 'Jumping to conclusions, Potter? I've heard about your legendary losses of temper. Do try to contain yourself. As for me, I am hardly the only one here with a motive to kill Lucius Malfoy.'

'Oh yeah?' The red-headed boy, Ron Weasley was his name, spoke up. 'Who else, then?'

'It could have been any of us, Mr. Weasley,' Dumbledore said, spreading his hands apart in a gesture of reason. 'You, me, anyone. But until this storm lets up, and the Aurors can sweep the crime scene, there is no way of knowing.'

Severus Snape stepped forward to inspect the body more closely, gently brushing Narcissa aside. He knelt down, touching the cooling puddle of tea with his fingers, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together close to his nose. Voldemort waited, certain of what the potions master would say.

'Poison,' Snape declared. 'Essence of box jellyfish, very rare.'

'Wait a minute.' Potter's friend, that brown-haired girl named Hermione Granger, stepped toward Lucius's body. 'This doesn't add up. There was poison in his tea, a knife in his back, a gunshot wound to the head, a rope, a candlestick…which of these was the cause of death?'

Voldemort smiled slightly. That Granger was a bright little witch, there was no doubt of that. He suspected that she was the brains behind Potter's entire operation. He mentally filed it away, for any future plots. He wondered if she had read his favourite book, _Hogwarts: a History_. He guessed that she had.

'Indeed, Miss Granger, indeed,' Dumbledore said softly. 'Who murdered Lucius Malfoy?'

For some inexplicable reason, everyone in the room turned to look at Voldemort. He repressed a surge of irritation, and smiled nastily. 'If I had wanted Lucius Malfoy dead, there would be no doubt in any of your minds that I was the culprit,' he said. 'This to me looks like sleight of hand, someone who did not want to be caught. What a perfect opportunity, with me in the room! All blame would go to the Dark Lord. Ingenious, whoever you are.' Voldemort emphasised his last words with a hiss, and rocked back on his heels.

'It was her, then!' Harry Potter gestured at Bellatrix. 'She's just as bad.'

'I wouldn't have let him die so easily,' Bellatrix cackled. 'Too quick. Not my style, boy. You should ask your friend Longbottom about that.'

Ron Weasley roared in rage. 'Why, I oughtta…!'

'Ron, calm down!' Granger tugged on her friend's arm.

'Yes, Mr. Weasley, we had forgotten about your _murderous_ temper,' Snape said. 'Took revenge, did you, for that little book Mr. Malfoy put in your sister's cauldron all those years ago?'

The company turned to look at Ginny Weasley, whose face was solemn and emotionless.

'You!' Bellatrix screeched. 'Pretty, devious little thing, I bet it was you!'

Ginny merely shook her head, saying nothing.

'It wasn't her,' Potter protested.

'Oh, really?' Now Draco Malfoy stepped forward. 'My father is dead, and _she_ has a motive.' Voldemort saw the anger flash in young Ginny's eyes at Draco's accusation. 'And the Weasleys are an uncivilised lot, anyway! And you, Potter, you'd have killed my father as soon as looked at him!'

Potter scowled. 'How much love was between you and your father, Malfoy? He didn't treat you well, did he? How did he treat your mother? How much did you hate him? Want him dead, out of the way, so you could be the man around here? Huh?'

Draco's face drained white as the list of accusatory questions went on. 'I did no such thing!' he shouted. 'My father was – he was – he was my father! Only a total psychopath would murder his own father!'

Once again, everyone turned to look at Voldemort, who rocked his head back in protest. 'What?' he said. 'If you all had known my filthy Muggle father, you'd have murdered him, as well. Can't a man get any sympathy around here? Besides, that is hardly the same thing. Apples and oranges.' He waved one hand dismissively.

'That's enough, all of you!' Narcissa's lovely voice rang through the room. 'I will not have such squabbling over my dear husband's body!' She snapped her fingers, and a house-elf materialised. 'Bring a white sheet, Heffy, and place it over Lucius –' her voice broke and she stumbled forward a little. Snape caught her by the arm, and placed a steadying hand on her back in the manner of habit. Voldemort noted this with interest; did his spy hold a soft spot for Lucius Malfoy's wife? Narcissa was beautiful, and Voldemort had never known Severus to have any other women. _Interesting_, he thought.

'Mrs. Malfoy, my deepest condolences about this situation,' Dumbledore said. Typical, that he would try to be noble and caring. 'We shall leave your husband in peace, for now, while we ride out the storm. Is there anything you wish me to do?' The old man's blue eyes twinkled in comfort towards his former pupil, the lady of the house.

'N-no,' Narcissa shook her head. She still had not cried. 'Thank you. But I think it's best if we all just retire for the evening.'

'Go to bed? With a murderer on the loose?' Harry Potter sounded incredulous.

'He's right,' said Pansy Parkinson, who had finally stopped crying. 'I don't want to be left all alone. What if someone else turns up dead?'

'I see the problem,' said Dumbledore, pressing his hands together. 'I suggest we pair off. That way, no one should ever be left alone and vulnerable.'

'No!' yelped Pansy. 'What if I get paired off with the murderer?'

'Then you'll die,' Draco said harshly.

'Then the rest of us shall know who the culprit is,' Dumbledore said, and he smiled pleasantly. 'But be assured, Miss Parkinson, I have confidence that you will be just fine.'

'Fine,' said Pansy, turning up her nose at Draco. 'I request to be with Harry Potter.'

'Now wait just a minute!' Ron Weasley interrupted. 'That's not fair!'

'I want to be with someone safe,' Pansy whined, shooting another look at Draco. Voldemort refrained from rolling his red eyes. These young people, and their little lovers' spats. How annoying.

'It's fine with me,' said Potter, undoubtedly wanting to vex the young Malfoy heir. Harry and Pansy retreated into a corner.

'Beautiful,' said Draco smoothly. 'Weasley, come with me.'

Ron glowered. 'Not in a million years, Malfoy, I –'

'Not you.' Draco's voice dripped with disdain. 'Her.' He reached out and grasped Ginny Weasley's wrist. The girl gasped, and tried to pull away, but Draco held her wrist with strong pale fingers.

'Come, Narcissa,' Snape's voice interrupted the drama, as he escorted the blonde woman out of the room. 'I'll take care of her,' he announced, unnecessarily, to the crowd.

'I'm sure you will,' Voldemort murmured under his breath, somewhat entertained by this new turn of events.

'It's settled then,' Dumbledore announced. 'Remember, stay with your partners. We don't need another murder.'

'What about you, sir?' Potter asked.

'I'll be fine,' Dumbledore smiled.

'Very well,' said Voldemort. 'Bella. Let us go.'

To his astonishment, Hermione Granger held out a hand to stop him. 'I don't think they should be partners,' she said, nodding at himself and Bellatrix. 'The Dark Lord and his number one Death Eater, roaming around? Not a good idea.'

Voldemort smiled with his thin lips. 'All right, Miss Granger. You and I.'

Her face went pallid, and her eyes widened in fright. 'I – I'm sorry, what did you say?'

'You and I. Partners. I can't use my wand, as you so eloquently explained before. If you are going to protest my staying with Bella, then you should be prepared to do something about it. You can be the one to, ahem, keep an eye me.'

Potter growled from the corner, where Pansy Parkinson clutched his arm, and the Weasley boy appeared ready to Avada Kedavra someone. Voldemort recognised the look.

'Fine,' Granger said quickly. 'It's a deal.'

'Ah, Gryffindor courage,' Voldemort laughed softly. 'Come, then.' He held out an arm to Hermione, who swallowed once and took it, placing her small white hand on his robes with utmost caution. They walked out the door together.

* * *

In the next chapter: 

'_Malfoy,' she said._

'_Weasley,' he said._

_Then both their heads snapped up, as the doorknob to the study jostled. All else was silent. Draco had the wild thought that the murderer was after them, and his heartbeat went from normal to overdrive. 'Come on,' he whispered, and dragged Ginny with him to a bookcase next to the fireplace. With practised fingers, he pulled the title marked 'Goblin Language During the Rebellions' and the bookcase swung inward to reveal a black passageway, cold wind blowing through._


	5. Noises in the Night

**Author's Notes:** Big thanks to all who have read and reviewed this story! _Possum132, Harry Fett, Pussin Boots, Kougaismyhomeboy, Miss Rachel Weasley, ParadoxofInfinity, LavenderBrown77, beckysue2, foggygoggles, Sugar.High.Power, supafly09, rising waves, TragicFantasy, Lilith-Kayden, Tanelle, The Enchanted Teakettle, forceuser1456, Ilaaris, lilith, _and _Maeve Morgan, _you are all wonderful for letting me know how you like this story!

And now...we have denials of guilt, lies, truths, motives, and all kinds of goodness. The real culprit (or culprits?) will not be the most obvious! I'll give a little hint: Lucius Malfoy will not be the only one to die during the weekend, mwahaha. And, any OOC-ness is for the sake of fun.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**Noises in the Night**

Draco kept hold of Ginny all the way out the door, down the grand entrance hall, and into his father's book-filled study, where he closed the door softly. He exhaled. His mind whirled, pounded, reeled with the knowledge of what had just happened. His father was dead. Murdered. And Draco Malfoy had just inherited Malfoy Manor, the vast fortune locked away in Gringotts Wizarding Bank, and the titular leadership of the Malfoy family. However, none of these things mattered to Draco, in that breath-filled moment after his father's violent death. Instead, he felt a horrifying mixture of relief and shock. The anger, bitterness, and resentment toward his father had been resolved in one swift moment, and Draco was left grasping for something to stand on.

As he leaned up against the inside of the heavy wooden door, looking at his feet, Draco remembered that he was not alone with his thoughts. He glanced up to meet Ginny's burning gaze.

'What?' he muttered.

'I want to know something from you, right here, right now,' she said. 'Did you do it? Did you murder your father?' Ginny's tone was firm and fearless.

Draco sighed. 'I wish I had,' he said honestly. 'But, no. I didn't. Someone beat me to it, and I don't even know who to thank.'

'Why do you – I mean, did you, hate him so much?'

With a glare, Draco pressed his lips together and walked across the room to sink into an armchair. 'It's complicated.'

Ginny followed him to sit in the chair beside him. She seemed unsure of what to say next.

'Never mind,' Draco said. 'He's dead now, and that's all that matters.'

'And that means there's a murderer loose in your house,' Ginny pointed out.

Draco shot her a wicked grin. 'There are _several_ murderers loose in my house. The Dark Lord, my Aunt Bellatrix, Dumbledore –'

'Dumbledore?' Ginny interrupted, incredulous.

'Well, yeah. He killed Grindelwald. Everyone knows that.'

'Oh, that's right.'

'So, it could have been anyone. But don't worry, this is my house. I know every secret passage, hidden room, lock and cabinet and doorway that exists.' For a reason unknown to his conscious mind, Draco wanted to reassure Ginny that no harm would come to her under _his_ roof. Then he remembered something: Ginny herself had reason to hate Lucius Malfoy. Perhaps he, Draco, was the one in danger. 'So, Ginny,' he said. 'How well did you know my father?'

'Not at all,' she replied blandly. Her eyes met his directly.

'Yet you had reason to hate him.'

Ginny scowled. 'Obviously, I'm not shedding tears that he's dead.'

Draco suddenly could not contain his curiosity about the Chamber of Secrets incident of his second year. He had only learned of his father's involvement by eavesdropping, and that information was incomplete: from what he could gather, Lucius had somehow orchestrated the opening of the Chamber, by giving an eleven-year old Ginny Weasley some kind of book that induced her to go into a trance and unleash the basilisk. 'What was it he did to you?' Draco asked her, as gently as he could manage. 'With the Chamber of Secrets?'

Ginny fell silent, and for a moment Draco thought he had pushed too far. Then, she began to speak, a shadow falling across her pretty face. 'He slipped a book into my cauldron, that time we ran into you at Flourish and Blotts. It was an old diary – the school diary of – of someone named Tom Riddle. Otherwise known as You-Know – Lord Voldemort.' She choked out the name, and looked away from him.

'What?' Draco murmured. This was definitely news to him.

'Silly, stupid me, I wrote in the diary. Poured myself out to him. And in the end, You-Know-Who's sixteen year old self possessed me, made me do things, and then lured me down into the Chamber of Secrets. He tried to suck the life out of me, so that he could be restored.' Ginny's voice was dull, in the manner of someone who had built up defences of apathy against horror.

'Dear Merlin,' Draco swore softly. 'I had no idea.'

'Then, Harry saved me,' Ginny looked up, defiance in her chin. 'He destroyed the diary, and the basilisk that lived in the Chamber.'

'Of course, Saint Potter to the rescue,' Draco said. A familiar surge of irritation washed through him at Potter's antics. For some inexplicable reason, he got an image of himself, charging into the Chamber of Secrets, battling a monster, outwitting the Dark Lord, and gathering Ginny into his arms, except she was not eleven years old but seventeen, and looked at him with those thick lash-fringed golden eyes…Instead, he just sneered at her.

'If it weren't for Harry, I'd be dead,' Ginny growled. 'But then, I doubt you care about that. You probably have no idea what it is to care about anyone at all.'

'That's what you know,' Draco said, standing up. This girl was getting on his last nerve.

'Whatever,' Ginny said, also standing with a rustle of her tight-fitting taffeta dress. 'I've had enough of this. I'm going to bed.'

'You're doing no such thing!' Draco strode over to her, grabbing her arm once more. 'No splitting up, remember?'

'I'll be fine,' Ginny said stubbornly.

'Actually, I want you to protect me,' Draco said.

Ginny grinned. 'Really.'

'Yes, that's right. I'm all scared of being murdered. I'm the new head of the House of Malfoy, prominent social figure, and all that. And with your temper, I'd rather have you here with me.' Draco did not release her arm; he liked the way her white skin felt under his fingers.

'It's your own house, Malfoy. You said yourself that you know all the secret passages. Surely you can find some rat-hole to hide in…or should I say ferret-hole?'

'Hey,' Draco said, offended. 'It's not my fault that Dumbledore hires maniacs as teachers.'

'Let go of my arm,' Ginny said, as if suddenly realising she was under his grip.

He did not let go exactly; instead, he loosened his hold and let his fingers trail down her arm, until he found her hand. She shivered.

'Malfoy,' she said.

'Weasley,' he said.

Then both their heads snapped up, as the doorknob to the study jostled. All else was silent. Draco had the wild thought that the murderer was after them, and his heartbeat went from normal to overdrive. 'Come on,' he whispered, and dragged Ginny with him to a bookcase next to the fireplace. With practised fingers, he pulled the title marked 'Goblin Language During the Rebellions' and the bookcase swung inward to reveal a black passageway, cold wind blowing through.

He pushed her into the dark, hands around her small waist, and pressed himself up against her in the small space. Draco could hear her breath coming hard and fast next to his ear. He was very aware of the shape of her next to him. 'Shhhh,' he whispered, moving his lips only centimetres from hers.

The bookcase swung shut behind them just in time.

* * *

She still could not cry. Narcissa Malfoy allowed herself to be tugged along by Severus Snape, into her now-late husband's study. Snape's hand held hers in a death grip, pressing hard on her dainty bones, as though he could elicit a tear with the pressure. If she could not show some better reaction, the other guests would suspect her of murder. She sighed inaudibly. _Not that everyone doesn't suspect everyone already._

'Severus, please,' she said. 'Please stop.'

Snape closed the door behind them, and stopped as if sniffing the air. 'Did you hear something?' he asked, peering about the fire-lit room.

'No,' said Narcissa. 'Why?'

'It's nothing,' said Snape. 'Just thought I heard something.' With one more keen look at the fireplace, he finally released Narcissa's hand.

She rubbed her knuckles, as a manner of reproaching Snape for his tight grip.

'Now,' he said, and brushed a strand of Narcissa's blonde hair back from her face. In her distraught state, her perfect coif had become mussed. 'What's this about, Narcissa? Did you kill your husband?'

'I didn't!' she burst forth, trying to ignore the pleasant shivers of her skin under Snape's long fingers. 'I would never ruin a dinner party in such a way!'

Snape's lips tightened to a thin line. 'Really. You are telling me you had no motivation to see Lucius dead?'

Narcissa fell silent for a moment, before speaking up to defend herself. 'Motive does not mean guilt!' Thinking of something else, she turned the tables on Snape. 'What about you? All those years of his ill treatment of you, building up? My husband was no angel, Severus, and don't pretend for a moment that you're not rejoicing that he's dead.'

'It's not his ill treatment of _me_ that was so intolerable.'

Narcissa looked up at the Potions Master with a quizzical expression. He was lying, had to be. She knew Snape's character; he took every insult, every slight, and let them built up to boiling point. He was a man to hold grudges for life, to never relinquish agonies that should have been forgotten. He was not a happy man. 'Severus, what are you talking about? Lucius was horrible to you. Surely you've taken your revenge, tonight!'

'I haven't,' Snape whispered. 'Though for your sake, I wish I had. You don't know how I've longed for him to be gone, for you to be away from his vicious grasp.'

Narcissa stared. Could it be? Could Severus Snape, the famously acerbic professor, the cold, logical, emotionally stunted man, have feelings for her? Narcissa was at a loss for words.

'You see,' Snape continued, 'I couldn't bear to see you so unhappy. To be attached to that man, who has done his best to ruin your family and reputation, placing you in severe danger…I admit my feelings for him are, _were_, rather, pure hatred. Narcissa!' he grasped both her hands, gently this time, and with snapping black eyes looked deep into her face. 'Let me take care of you! I've been watching out for you, from behind the scenes, all these years, and Draco is like a son to me. I could not bear to see you alone in the world. Please.'

'Severus,' Narcissa rolled her head backwards, feeling the strength of her bones giving way. Snape begging was not a sight with which she was prepared to deal. And yet, did she not feel trembles under his touch? Did she not look forward to their dealings with pleasure beyond that of mere acquaintance? Suddenly, violently, Narcissa was glad that Lucius was dead. 'Severus, I had no idea,' she said.

The professor's mouth quirked upward in a wry smile. 'Did you not?'

'Well,' said Narcissa, 'perhaps a little inkling, some of the time.' She brought her hand up to caress Snape's hollowed cheek, and he closed his eyes under her touch. '_I'm glad Lucius is dead_,' she whispered hoarsely.

'So am I,' Snape murmured. Then, he dipped his tall frame down, and kissed Narcissa gently on the lips.

Behind a bookshelf, someone gasped, but it went unheard by Narcissa and Snape alike.

* * *

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger was at a loss. This was a situation that she had never encountered, never read about in any of her precious books. Hermione did not deal with unpredictable situations very well, and right now…well, right now she was walking on eggshells. Walking alongside Lord Voldemort himself. 

When the party adjourned from the sitting room where Lucius Malfoy's dead body lay cooling on the floor, Voldemort had twisted Hermione's words, forced her into his accompaniment for the entire weekend! For the duration of the magical storm which, as Dumbledore had said, could last for weeks! Hermione suppressed a surge of panic at the thought. Bad enough that they had shown up at all, Voldemort and his lieutenant in evil, Bellatrix. Worse that they should all be stuck in the same house together. And now? Hermione felt she had hit rock bottom, the worst of the worst, as bad as things could get. It was all she could do not to scream.

Voldemort's tall frame glided along the corridor, silent and repulsive, and Hermione was afraid to say a word. With morbid curiosity, Hermione glanced up at his face. It was partially concealed by shadows, but she could make out the white skin, glowing crimson eyes, a well-formed skeletal face that gave only a hint of the handsome man he had once been. He led the way by half a step, Hermione unable to make any important decisions such as where to go next. The Dark Lord appeared to know the ins and outs of Malfoy Manor quite well, and Hermione hurried to keep up with his long-legged strides. All was silence, apart from their footfalls on the marble floor.

At last, they reached a set of double doors, and Voldemort waved his hand, sending the doors flying open. _Wandless magic. Show-off_, thought Hermione. Then she paused; was it even possible to do wandless magic right now? Her mind went back to a passage she had read about magical storms, her inner eye scanning over the remembered lines. _Magical storms, the most rare and powerful form of magical interference, render all strong magic impossible. Wand magic, Apparation, conjuration, spell-casting...all are made obsolete. The only magics that can be performed during such a storm are low-level wandless or accidental magic, and the peculiar forms of house-elf magic..._ Perfect. Lord Voldemort could still probably kill her, if he focused his wandless abilities. The tight ball of fear in Hermione's stomach hardened.

Then, she glanced up at their location and immediately forgot her distress. She flew into the room, her face lighting up in spite of itself. 'The library!' she exclaimed.

'Yes,' said Voldemort, 'this house has one of the world's finest collections. The Dark Arts, in particular, are well-stocked. As is Divination.'

'Divination,' Hermione scoffed. 'Very woolly subject, if you ask me.'

'I didn't ask you,' said Voldemort. Hermione turned to glare at him, but the protest died on her lips when she saw the amusement in his face. 'But,' he continued, 'I agree with you. Divination is a discipline wrought with frauds, although genuine prophecies do, of course, exist.'

'Of course,' Hermione echoed, thinking of the prophecy that they had pursued at the Department of Mysteries, at great cost.

'Though, if I were you, I would be most interested in the sections on Ancient Runes. There's a marvellous book in here, now where is it…' Voldemort's long spidery fingers ran over the leather of the books. Hermione could almost feel the tingle of leather herself. 'Ah. Here. _Rune Magic and Ancient Spells_. It outlines the basis for ancient magics which have been largely banned by the dear Ministry. Here.' He held out the book to her.

Hermione's hands itched to take it. She loved Ancient Runes. And she loved ancient magic. And as of late, she loved reading books that would anger the Ministry of Magic. She took two steps forward, then stopped herself. 'No,' she said. 'No, thank you.'

'Come, now, Miss Granger. I can see the longing in your eyes. I know all about you, Potter's clever friend.' He spat the name Potter with vitriol. 'It will be a long night. I suggest you settle yourself in to pass the time somehow.'

Hermione glared as best she could. The firelight flickered across Voldemort's white face, softening it somehow. Or perhaps that was the wine she had consumed at dinner. In any case, the calling of the written word overwhelmed her hesitancy at accepting it from Lord Voldemort. She stepped forward, and took the book from Voldemort's hands. His fingers brushed her own as she did.

Ignoring the queasy feeling engendered by touching him, Hermione lowered her eyes and sat before the fire. The book opened, and she was lost in it. Vaguely aware that Voldemort had chosen his own reading material, had sat down in an armchair across from her, Hermione's eyes skimmed rapidly over the pages, taking in knowledge, categorising it with joyful abandon. She had a mind to pocket the book and take it with her when she left. Surely Lucius Malfoy had no further use for it.

The hours passed easily, and with a start, Hermione looked up as the clocked dinged eleven o'clock. 'Oh!' she said. 'I didn't realise it was so late.' She yawned on cue.

'Interesting reading?' said Voldemort.

'Oh, yes,' Hermione said. 'I think there's something to be said for the ancient Gaelic rituals of Transfiguration. Spells with a runic base have far more power than Latin spells.'

'Ancient magic has the sort of permanence that modern wand-waving cannot compare to,' said Voldemort. 'Something for you to look into, perhaps.'

Hermione said nothing. Would he try to turn her to the Dark side, she wondered? Offer her unlimited resources, experimentation, a library like this one? A moment of temptation was shrugged off with effort.

Then, Voldemort asked her something unexpected. 'Did you murder Lucius Malfoy?'

'Pardon?'

'You heard me. Did you murder him?'

Hermione spluttered in forced indignation. 'Of course not! I'm not a murderer. He was a nasty character, certainly, but I would prefer to see him brought to justice, locked away in Azkaban.' She looked at Voldemort. 'That was a very direct question, for a Slytherin.'

'You have no idea,' said Voldemort. He seemed amused again, and Hermione felt inexplicably annoyed at him. 'I can be direct, if the occasion calls for it.'

'So can I,' said Hermione. 'Did you murder Malfoy?'

Voldemort laughed, disconcerting in its cold delight. 'No. As I said before, if I had been the one to kill poor Lucius, you would not be left in any doubt of it.'

'Hmm,' said Hermione. It made sense, really; Lord Voldemort was a murderer and everyone knew it. If he were to kill Lucius Malfoy, there was no need for _him_ to be circumspect about it. 'I do believe you're telling the truth,' she said.

'Of course I am,' Voldemort replied, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence. It was ludicrous, coming from him.

'Right,' muttered Hermione.

'The real question is,' said Voldemort, 'who did murder Malfoy? As I observed, there were several possible murder weapons.'

Hermione thought over the events of the evening. It was very curious, the injuries on Malfoy's body, the multiple avenues of death. Was it one person, acting to make sure of the deed or confuse investigators? Or had it been several people, acting with the same goal of Malfoy's murder?

It occurred to her that keeping Voldemort's mind occupied with a murder mystery would be a good way to distract him from harming her. She took a deep breath. 'I don't believe the cause of death was the rope, or the candlestick,' said Hermione. 'Strangulation by rope would take longer than the few seconds the room was dark. And the candlestick? Perhaps it hit him over the head, but I didn't see any evidence of bludgeoning wounds.'

'Indeed,' said Voldemort. He sounded impressed. 'I had reached the same conclusion. It had to be the knife, the poison, or the gun.'

'A Muggle gun, at that,' said Hermione. 'Who might have had it?'

'You are, to my knowledge, the only mudblood in the company,' said Voldemort.

Hermione winced at the insult. 'Do you mind keeping a civil tongue?'

'Yes, I do.'

She made a disgusted noise. 'As I seem to recall, you yourself have less-than-pure blood, _my Lord_.'

Voldemort fell silent. Hermione instantly regretted her choice of words. _What is wrong with me?_ she thought. _Aggravating the Dark Lord is not a good way to go, Granger. Just shut up_. 'Anyway,' she said. 'I agree with you that it was one of those three weapons. Obviously, the gun went off. But was Malfoy already dead when it did?'

Voldemort swallowed visibly. For a tense moment, Hermione thought she saw him holding back his rage at her. She felt profoundly grateful for the anti-magic wards on Malfoy Manor. Then, cool-as-can-be, Voldemort spoke again. 'It's impossible to tell what killed him. Only a thorough magical investigation could determine it, aided by Pensieves and retracing spells. However, with all of us trapped in the same house for the foreseeable future, I would not be surprised if the murderer inadvertently revealed himself. Or herself.'

'You think there will be another murder?' Hermione asked, alarmed.

Voldemort chuckled. 'It's always a possibility. Why? Are you scared?' A flare of red brightened his eyes. Hermione wondered if that meant he was pleased.

'Of course not,' she snapped. 'It's only a theory.'

'I would say you are the safest person in Malfoy Manor right now,' said Voldemort. 'After all, I'm sure no one would attempt to murder me. Not even Dumbledore or Potter, without their magic to aid them. And I'm with you. Therefore, you are safe.' Voldemort smiled at this last, in the manner of a child having logically proved some impossible thing.

'Safe,' Hermione said. 'Right.' She settled back in to finish the chapter on elven runes in the Burren of Ireland.

It was approximately thirty minutes later that she heard the scream.

* * *

In the next chapter: 

'_But you're supposed to stay with me,' protested Pansy._

'_Well, come on, then!' Harry was nearly to the door. _

_Pansy dashed after him. 'This is absurd,' she said. 'Do you always go running off to save the day like this?'_

_As they jogged down the corridors together, Harry thought about it for only a moment before responding 'Yes.'_


	6. Bumping Into Trouble

**Author's Notes:** To my reviewers, great thanks as always: _Possum132, Tanelle, Pussin Boots, supafly09, Kougaismyhomeboy, Miss Rachel Weasley, forceuser1456, ParadoxofInfinity, The Enchanted Teakettle, Darthanor, mell8, Ilaaris, Tessa, orio, Maeve Morgan, Delayed Poet, hedwig1234, jjp34, _and _aquamarine_.

Ok my darlin's, here it is: the update! Like I said in my profile I am trying to be as consistent as possible, with the weekly chapters :-) I love all of your theories about what's going on...some of you are very close on the mark, but I won't say who of course! As for the endings, I'll tell you this: it (they?) is so outrageous I would be shocked if anyone guessed it, heehee. As for where Ron, Dumbledore, and Bellatrix are...that is the question, isn't it?

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Bumping Into Trouble**

'Would you let go of my hand already? I really need it,' Harry said, as he and Pansy Parkinson climbed the stairs toward the endless corridors of the Manor's first story.

With a shake of her glossy black bob, Pansy did not relent. 'I'm scared,' she said. 'I don't want to die.'

'You're not going to die!' Harry burst, annoyed. 'You're not Lucius Malfoy, with enemies lining up the block.'

'Still,' said Pansy, 'I could be hit in the cross-fire. That was a _Muggle_ thing! What is it called? A gum?'

'A gun. They're called guns. That one, specifically, was a revolver.'

'What's the difference?'

Harry decided it was a lost cause to explain the various types of Muggle weaponry to a pure-blooded snob like Pansy. He knew all about guns, courtesy of Dudley's many violent video games. 'Never mind,' he said. 'The point is, none of us can do magic, either to attack or defend. You're better off with someone like me. I learned from an early age how to avoid physical attack.'

'What do you mean?' Pansy asked.

Regarding her for a moment to ascertain her sincerity, Harry met her shining olive eyes and found genuine curiosity. 'My cousin, Dudley,' he said. 'Great fat porky bloke, with a talent for boxing. He and his friends are the neighbourhood bullies. I was often on the receiving end.'

'Oh,' she said in a small voice.

'That is, until Dudley learned not to get on the wrong side of me and my wand.' Harry smiled grimly at the thought. It was true; Dudley and his friends never bothered him anymore, despite the fact he was lanky, verging on scrawny, where old 'Dudders' could wallop him to the ground if he wanted. 'It's a beautiful thing sometimes, fear,' said Harry.

'Very Slytherin of you,' said Pansy. It sounded as though she approved. 'I doubt your cousin would mess with you, now that you're one of the most powerful wizards in the entire school.'

Harry looked sharply over at her. 'I am?'

Pansy snorted. 'Sure. You were the Tri-Wizard Champion, weren't you? And I heard about how you can cast a corporeal Patronus. I don't know anyone else who can do that.' It was Pansy's way of complimenting him, Harry realised. They reached a tall arched wooden door, and Pansy stopped suddenly, pulling Harry to a halt as well. 'This is my room,' she said. 'Will you check it for me? Make sure there's no one inside?'

'All right,' Harry agreed. He was, after all, the Hero. And next to him was a girl who was scared, anxious, in need of protection. He opened the door.

The guest quarters of Malfoy Manor were the best to be found in the entire country. Twenty bedrooms in all, each outfitted with the best furniture, décor, and appliances that wizard's gold could buy. Pansy's quarters were no exception. Gilded in soft cream and gold, brocade drapes closed against the night and the storm, the room made Harry feel out of his league. It was a feminine place, and he averted his eyes from Pansy's open trunk, which had exploded with draped lacy undergarments. Gripping his wand out of habit, he checked underneath the bed, behind the drapes and tapestries, and inside the wardrobe. 'All clear,' he said.

'And the bathroom?' said Pansy, closing the door behind her.

'Right,' Harry muttered. The bathroom was also free of murderers, although Harry was disconcerted by the rows of female vanity products laid out on the marble countertop. 'No one here,' said.

'Phew,' said Pansy, flopping onto a loveseat by the blazing fireplace. 'Thank you, Harry.'

'You're welcome,' said Harry, nonplussed. This was not how he imagined Pansy Parkinson to be. She was almost…tolerable. Something was not right. He eased himself on the loveseat next to her, studying her face up close for the first time. Rounded cheekbones, perky nose, wide-set eyes of bright olive brown, and pouty bow lips decorated with some sort of pink gloss-thing. In all, not unattractive. 'So…' he began.

'I just thought of something,' she interrupted. 'You're not the murderer, are you?'

Harry stared. 'What would make you ask a question like that?'

'I was thinking about it,' said Pansy, 'and the thought has occurred to me that you had quite a motive to kill Mr. Malfoy.'

'Hey, you're the one who wanted to be partnered with me,' Harry said.

'I figured that even if you were the murderer, you would have no real reason to hurt me, would you? In fact, you might purposefully keep me safe, in order to direct blame away from yourself.'

'That would be very crafty of me,' said Harry.

'Well. Perhaps that's just the way I think, but you certainly had reason to murder Mr. Malfoy, didn't you? I mean, he was caught at the Department of Mysteries as a Death Eater, when your godfather – well, you know,' Pansy said.

Harry sighed. It was a sore subject, but Pansy was right; it was a perfect reason to want Malfoy dead. 'Yeah,' he muttered.

'Sorry,' she said.

'It's all right.' Harry sighed again. 'It was partially my fault, anyway. If I hadn't been so stupid as to fall for Voldemort's tricks, it never would have happened. Sirius would never have even had to be there.'

'Oh, Harry, it doesn't sound like it was your fault,' Pansy said. 'Think of it as Mr. Malfoy's fault, if it makes you feel better, because he's dead!'

Harry laughed in spite of himself. Pansy was a very practical girl, as it turned out. 'Now only Voldemort left to go,' he said. 'Although it's not as if I want to go all crazy and kill Voldemort. He's more powerful and I'm not sure I can even do it.'

'I suppose,' Pansy said. 'But why don't you let it go? You don't have to be a hero all the time, you know. Let someone else take care of it.'

'I can't,' Harry muttered. He couldn't tell her of the prophecy; she could not possibly understand the burden upon his shoulders.

Pansy looked at him with a quizzical expression, as though waiting for a better response than 'I can't.'

'He murdered my parents,' Harry said, as though that was reason enough.

For Pansy, it seemed to be. '_Very_ Slytherin of you,' she said again. 'Revenge! For the record, I think you'll do fine. After all, you've escaped him so many times already. It's like fate or something.' At that moment in the middle of the night, Pansy seemed ready to throw in her lot with the likely winner of the Harry-Voldemort battle; _after all_, Harry thought, _I'm the centre of my story here! Of course I'm going to win_!

He had never meant to admit so much, especially not to Pansy Parkinson. But thus far, she had finagled out of him that he used to be beaten up by his cousin Dudley, that he felt responsible for his godfather's death, and that he had deep insecurities about having to kill Lord Voldemort. _Neat trick_, Harry thought. _Must be a Slytherin thing_. Even more surprising was that Pansy was not making fun of him, or using his weaknesses against him. Not yet, at least.

'So what now?' he said. 'It's nearly midnight. You must be getting tired.'

Pansy shifted in her seat. 'Harry?'

'Yeah?'

'Where's your room from here?'

'Uhh…' Harry had not really thought about that. The truth was he had no idea. Malfoy Manor was a maze of corridors and rooms. He wouldn't have been surprised to discover that it shifted and changed, like Hogwarts Castle. 'I don't know,' he said.

'Well, maybe…er, that is, if you don't mind…maybe you could stay here with me?' Pansy blinked several times and looked away. Harry noticed that she had very long eyelashes.

'Are you really that scared of being murdered?' Harry asked, trying to defuse the implications of staying the night with her.

Pansy nodded her head vigorously.

'Okay,' Harry whispered. 'I guess I can stay.'

She smiled, looking grateful and vulnerable at once. Harry wondered if it was really Pansy, or if it was some feminine snake-house trick. Either way, he did not mind.

In silent agreement, they both stood and looked at the large bed. Awkwardness insinuated itself into the silence, and Harry was afraid of saying anything. He had certainly not expected to be sharing a bed with Pansy Parkinson that night. 'Er, I'll sleep on the floor, I guess,' Harry said.

'Okay,' said Pansy, altogether too cheerfully.

Harry scowled. It wasn't that he wanted to share a bed with Pansy, oh no, but she might have at least offered…at the same time, they reached for the silk duvet. Their hands collided.

'Sorry,' Harry and Pansy said in unison.

'Here,' she said, handing him a pillow. At the very moment their eyes locked, Harry heard it: muffled, far away, but certainly there. A scream.

'What was that?' Pansy whispered.

'Someone screamed,' Harry said, redundantly.

'Let's just stay here, Harry, please?' She moved closer to him, as though going for an embrace. 'Please?'

Harry was torn. Pansy's company was not objectionable, now that he was resigned to it. But…what if Ginny was in trouble? Or Hermione? His best friend was at the moment in the company of Voldemort. That last thought galvanised him, made up his mind for him. 'I have to go,' he said. 'Someone might be in trouble.'

'But you're supposed to stay with me,' protested Pansy.

'Well, come on, then!' Harry was nearly to the door.

Pansy dashed after him. 'This is absurd,' she said. 'Do you always go running off to save the day like this?'

As they jogged down the corridors together, Harry thought about it for only a moment before responding 'Yes.'

* * *

Ginny tried in vain to get Draco to release her hand. They scurried through the secret passage in great haste, Draco muttering things to himself, heedless of Ginny aside from his tight grip. It was no wonder, thought Ginny. He had just seen his mother and his professor kissing in his dead father's study. It had to be traumatic, even for an unfeeling prat like Draco Malfoy. 

After hearing the jiggling of the doorknob, and ducking into the passageway behind the fireplace, Draco and Ginny had stayed there side-by-side, peering out through the books, when they saw Mrs. Malfoy and Professor Snape enter the study. The entire time, Ginny could hear Draco's breath, growing louder by the second, and when Snape leaned down to kiss Mrs. Malfoy, Ginny had gasped aloud and Draco had been so surprised that he fell back against the other side of the wall, hands on his temples. 'What?' he had whispered.

Then Ginny had intervened, and grabbed his wrist before he could do something rash, such as interrupt the increasingly heated snog-session in the room next to them. It had been unnerving, to say the least, to witness Professor Snape in a passionate clinch, but Ginny had kept her presence of mind and whispered to Draco, 'We should go.'

That was when Draco grabbed her hand and took off at breakneck speed down the secret passage, dragging Ginny behind him.

'Malfoy, for the last time, let go of me.'

No response.

'Malfoy! I swear. If you want an excuse to touch me, well, you'll have to find a gentler way of doing it if you want me to be amenable.'

To Ginny's relief, he released her hand. 'Fine,' he said, 'just keep up.'

She stayed on his heels, the hem of her evening dress wrapped up in one hand to prevent it becoming dirty. The passage winded and twisted but fortunately, there were no stairs. After several minutes of fast walking, they came out in the front parlour, which Ginny recognised from their awkward tea-time earlier that day. The room was in shadow. 'Gringle!' Draco snapped his fingers once, and a house-elf appeared before them.

'Yes, young master?'

'Light the candles,' Draco snapped.

'You could be a little nicer,' said Ginny.

'Taking up the noble cause of that mudblood Granger, are you?' Draco said, that familiar sneer across his face. The light in the room grew brighter as the house-elf began lighting candles.

'Ugh. Malfoy, if you can't come up with a more creative insult than 'mudblood', then you're not as clever as you look.'

'So you admit I'm clever,' said Draco.

'No,' said Ginny. 'I think you're –' she broke off. Then, she screamed, bloody murder and danger and utter shock. She screamed for several long seconds, until she felt Draco's hand clamped over her mouth. She screamed, because dangling from the chandelier of the parlour was the body of a woman.

It was Bellatrix Lestrange. Her feet swayed ever so slightly, and for one horrible second Ginny thought the feet still twitched in their boots. Further inspection banished the thought, for Bellatrix had obviously been dead for some minutes. Her face was blue, and her black hair hung forward, limp and lifeless. The whites of her eyes were flooded red, from burst blood vessels. A small trail of saliva hung from the edge of her mouth.

Ginny shook, and Draco wrapped his arms around her to stop her from crying out again. 'Shhh,' he said. 'Shhh.'

'I'm all right,' she said. 'I'm fine. I was just – it surprised me, that's all. I'm fine.' Ginny pulled herself together with effort. After all, she had already seen one dead body this night; what was another? She pulled away from Draco, and saw that his face, too, was pale. 'Your aunt,' Ginny whispered.

He nodded curtly. 'The murderer is still on the loose, I see.'

Then Ginny nearly screamed again, as Lord Voldemort swept into the room. She bit back the reaction at the last second, and reached for Draco again.

'What's this?' Voldemort hissed. His red eyes trailed up to the ceiling, where his most trusted Death Eater hung in stiff repose. 'Bella…'

'Oh, God!' Hermione's voice.

'Hermione!' Ginny said.

'Was it you who screamed?' Hermione rushed over to Ginny. 'We were in the library, and we heard you –' her brown eyes glanced up at the ceiling, and her mouth grew tight. Both girls glanced over at Voldemort.

The Dark Lord looked angry. His face was implacable, but his mouth thinned and Ginny saw his left fist clenched.

'My Lord?' said Hermione.

Ginny stared at her friend, taken aback. Only a few hours in Voldemort's company, and she was already calling him 'my Lord?'

'Are you convinced of my innocence now, Miss Granger?' Voldemort said. 'I would be the last to murder Bellatrix, would I not?'

Ginny detected the underlying fury in Voldemort's voice. For a moment, she felt him as he had once been, Tom Riddle, her false friend. Even now, his mannerisms remained familiar.

'It's the same rope that was in the drawing room,' said Hermione, ever-logical. 'See?'

'Granger's right,' said Draco, speaking up for the first time. 'My Lord?' he regarded Voldemort hesitantly.

Lord Voldemort looked over the three young people. 'It is the same rope,' he said. 'Miss Granger, come with me.'

Hermione walked to his side, a bit too quickly for Ginny's taste.

'What now?' Hermione asked in a small voice. Ginny was frightened for her.

'You and I will go back to the drawing room. I was not sorry to see Lucius dead, but this is another matter entirely. When I find the murderer, there will be nothing left of them.' Voldemort's voice was high and cold, utterly merciless.

Ginny shuddered as Voldemort swept out of the room into the dark front hall beyond, followed by Hermione, who threw a feeble look back at Ginny and Draco before she closed the door behind her.

'I want to get out of here,' said Ginny. 'Please?'

Draco sighed. 'Me, too. But I'd rather give them a little head start,' he jerked his head toward the door where Voldemort and Hermione had gone.

'True,' muttered Ginny. 'Were you close to her? Bellatrix, I mean?'

'Not really,' said Draco. 'She used to send me Christmas gifts. Books on the Dark Arts, mostly.' He let out a huff of amusement. 'She gave me Occlumency lessons for awhile. She wasn't the best teacher, though. She is, er, _was_ a bit unstable.' His eyes flicked up to the woman's body, and he glanced away quickly. 'Never mind. Let's get out of here.' Draco walked toward the door, holding it open for Ginny, who was happy to leave the room.

The front hall was nearly pitch black, with the storm raging outside and the witch-lights unlit. Occasional flashes of lightning gave split-second glimpses of the hall, followed by claps of thunder that set the chandelier glass tinkling. The bright lightning flashes followed by total darkness made Ginny feel disoriented. Her night vision did not get the chance to adjust itself. Ginny bumped into something once, and that turned out to be a large vase. Her toes budged, but the vase did not, fortunately. It would not do for her to break any Malfoy antiques. Her heels clicked on the marble floor, but the sound was drowned out by the increasing howl of the storm outside. Dark, dark, dark, flash of lightning, dark again…

'Ooomph!' Draco let out a muffled groan in front of her.

'Hey!' shouted a voice.

Then Ginny was bowled over by some _shape_, a form that hurtled down from above, (_we must be near the staircase_, she thought) and her heel slipped and she went over, knocking her head painfully on the floor. 'Oh!' she exclaimed. She tripped over someone else on the way down, and was now in a tangled mess of limbs. Her dress wrapped itself around her legs, and she was quite unable to move.

A moment of wounded silence, and Ginny exclaimed, 'Who is that?'

'--who are you?'

'--what just happened?' Several other voices chimed in.

From her position, Ginny could only ascertain that someone was lying beneath her legs, and someone else had landed on her chest, pressing her down so that breathing was made difficult. 'Get off me!' she said. She attempted to flail her arms, but those too were pinned.

A fortuitous lightning flash revealed that Draco was on top of her, and Ginny caught glimpses of a head of black hair also entangled, and a pair of glasses on the floor. _Harry and Pansy,_ she realised.

'I need a goddamn light,' someone muttered, a voice Ginny now recognised as Draco's.

'Call a house-elf,' said Pansy.

'Ugh,' said Harry.

It took several minutes to untangle themselves. When all was said and done, Ginny's carefully constructed done-up hair had fallen down, and she could tell there would be bruises, but she was otherwise unbroken.

'Potter,' said Draco.

'Malfoy,' Harry replied. 'What's going on? We heard someone scream.'

'That was me,' Ginny said.

'Are you all right? What happened?' Harry's voice was full of concern. Ginny felt a wave of warmth toward him, although it was regrettably sisterly.

'I'm fine, Harry,' she said. 'It's just that, well, there's been another murder.'

'What?' Pansy shrieked. '_Who?_'

'My aunt Bellatrix,' Draco said. 'Hung from the chandelier in the parlour. I'd suggest staying away. It's not a pretty sight.'

'Bellatrix?' Harry said, sounding confused. 'Really?'

'Really,' Draco said.

'Oh,' Harry said. 'I thought you might have been in trouble, Ginny. That's why we ran down here.'

Pansy huffed. 'No, that's why _you_ ran down here. I was forced.'

'Regretting your choice to go with Potter, are you?' Draco sneered to Pansy in the darkness. Ginny could not see Draco's face, but she was certain of its expression.

'Actually, no,' said Pansy, instantly sweet. 'Harry's been very good company.'

Harry cleared his throat. Ginny wondered if he was blushing.

'So Potter, should we switch partners now, or what?' Draco said. 'You take little Weasel here, and I'll take Pansy off your hands.'

Ginny made an indignant noise. Surely she was not such a poor companion! Just when she was beginning to think Draco Malfoy was not one hundred percent git, he said something like this. She spoke up. 'You're not getting rid of me that easily, Malfoy,' she snapped. 'I want to keep an eye on you. I don't _trust_ you. Isn't that right, Harry?'

'Er,' Harry said.

'Oh for Merlin's sake,' Ginny said. She was unaccountably annoyed. 'Let's just go. I'm tired, and Malfoy's taking me to bed.'

In the silence that followed her statement, Ginny realised how it must have sounded. She felt a hot blush creep up her own cheeks; she was suddenly grateful for the darkness. 'That is, I meant, Malfoy is going to escort me to my door, and leave me there so I can rest.'

'Whatever,' Draco said.

'Good, then,' Pansy said. 'Harry, shall we get some sandwiches? I know where the kitchens are.'

'Sounds good,' Harry replied to her. 'Malfoy, take care.' It was a threat, not a good wish.

'Oh, don't worry about us, Potter,' Draco said. 'Come on, Weasley.' Ginny felt him fumble around in the darkness for her hand, and then they walked up the stairs together, careful in the shadows.

* * *

In the next chapter: 

'_Ah,' said Hermione, understanding dawning. 'I hope Malfoy Manor has potions ingredients.'_

'_In the dungeons,' said Voldemort. He enjoyed the flash of fear that crawled across Hermione's face. _

'_Well, my Lord,' she said, setting herself into brave lines. 'What are we waiting for?'_


	7. Evidence Uncovered

**Author's Notes: **Thanks as ever to my reviewers: _supafly09, SlytherinFan15, Danor, hedwig1234, The Enchanted Teakettle, Maeve Morgan, Delayed Poet, _and _jjp91_.

When I updated chapter 6, the site was down, so sorry for the incovenience -- I think ffnet gets very confused sometimes. But it seems to be working now...so enjoy chapter 7!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**Evidence Uncovered**

Voldemort was furious. He desperately wanted to _Crucio_ someone, just to alleviate the stress. He was not a sadist, and was pragmatic about the use of pain, but sometimes…he settled himself to clench his left fist instead, so hard his bones started to hurt. Beside him, the feather light steps of Hermione Granger provided a gentle rhythm to his thoughts as he headed for the Malfoy drawing room where Lucius Malfoy's dead body remained. There, he thought, would be the clues that would lead him to Bellatrix's murderer.

A fresh wave of anger boiled in his blood. He had spent so much effort on Bellatrix. Years of training, teaching her the Dark Arts, rescuing her from Azkaban, covering for her…she had been his prodigy, and now she was dead. Voldemort hated for his effort to go to waste, and this was a huge waste of talent. He glanced down at little Granger next to him. _Hmm,_ he thought. _Perhaps Bellatrix can be replaced_. He reminded himself to be on his best and most charming behaviour.

The Granger girl was a mudblood, of course; that was unfortunate. However, Voldemort considered himself a practical and reasonable man. He could overlook accidents of bloodline, if the wizard or witch was willing to serve him with distinction. Severus Snape, after all was a half-blood, as was Voldemort himself. Besides, to gain Hermione Granger's loyalty – what a coup! It would strike at the heart of Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore. He smiled at the thought, feeling his mood improve.

The drawing room was dark like the rest of the house, and Voldemort waved his hand, flaring up the room's witch-lights to light their investigation.

'The rope is gone,' said Hermione.

'I can see that, girl,' Voldemort hissed impatiently. 'What we are looking for is evidence. If we can discover how Malfoy died, that will lead us to Bella's killer. I think it must be the same person.'

'Not necessarily, sir,' said Hermione.

He glanced over at her. She defied him so openly; Voldemort was not used to it. 'Explain yourself,' he said.

'What if Bellatrix herself murdered Malfoy? And someone else murdered her? It's a possibility.'

That was true. 'Then if we discover that Bellatrix killed Malfoy, that will narrow down the suspects of who killed her, will it not? Remember, Miss Granger, I am in a foul mood. I've lost two Death Eaters tonight, one loyal and one…not-so-loyal,' he said, looking down at Malfoy's body with distaste.

'Let's start with the positions of everyone in the room,' said Hermione. 'As far as I could discern, we were all equidistant from Malfoy. Someone held the gun, fired it, dropped it here,' she walked over to where the Muggle revolver lay on the Oriental carpet. 'The bullet entered Malfoy's left temple, here,' she pointed, 'and must have remained in the brain, as there is no exit wound.'

Voldemort smiled. 'You're very clinical about it.'

Hermione pretended not hear him and continued to speak. 'The rope has been taken,' indicating the candlestick left alone on the carpet. 'All the other weapons appear to be intact.'

The knife still stuck out of Malfoy's neck, now with a circle of dried blood around its hilt. Voldemort knelt near the body, folding his black robes out of the way. He inspected the poisoned tea, confirming for himself Snape's analysis of box jellyfish toxin. 'There is a way to tell if the poison took hold,' he said.

'How?' Hermione asked, kneeling next to him.

'We shall need essence of belladonna, asphodel powder, and freshly-taken pollen of greater bindweed flower, as well as a stabilising base of erumpent fluid. That compound, applied to the lips, will produce blue foam if poison is present.'

'Ah,' said Hermione, understanding dawning. 'I hope Malfoy Manor has potions ingredients.'

'In the dungeons,' said Voldemort. He enjoyed the flash of fear that crawled across Hermione's face.

'Well, my Lord,' she said, setting herself into brave lines. 'What are we waiting for?'

'No,' he said. 'You've overlooked the fact that greater bindweed only blooms in the mornings. _If_ they even have it in the greenhouse. The potion will have to be made tomorrow.'

'Oh,' said Hermione. 'Yes.'

'That leaves us all night to do other things,' he said.

Another expression of repulsion and fear crept into Hermione's features.

'Oh, for the love of Merlin, child!' Voldemort snapped. 'Solving the mystery! What did you think I meant?'

'N-n-nothing,' she stammered, lowering her head.

Voldemort stood, stepping away from the body. 'Let us return to the parlour, to see if anything has been overlooked. Knowing Bella as I do –' he paused, 'as I _did,_ she put up a fight. Come.' With a dramatic flounce of his robes (Voldemort had practised the gesture for hours, long ago, until he got it right), he swept from the room, keen ears picking up little Hermione Granger's feet running after him. _Ahhh,_ he thought, _I love having followers._

'How old are you, child?' he said over his shoulder to Hermione, certain she was right behind him.

'Eighteen, sir,' she said. 'Well, nineteen, if you count the year with the time-turner.'

'Time-turner?'

'Mmm. In my third-year, I took a double class load, and used a time-turner. Professor McGonagall gave it to me. But, I had to give it back at the end of the year, because it was a bit much, even for me. I did get O marks in all my classes, however.' She said this last with obvious pride in her voice.

'Indeed?' Voldemort said. This girl was ambitious, for a Gryffindor. A bit neurotic about schoolwork, perhaps, but there was plenty of potential there. 'A time-turner for a thirteen-year-old? They must have trusted you completely.'

'There was no reason why not,' she said. 'I am the most responsible person I know. If it weren't for me, Ron and Harry –' she cut herself off.

Voldemort laughed mightily. It was a rare sound from his lips, but when he laughed, he meant it. 'If it weren't for you, your little friends would get into even more trouble than they already do. That's what you meant to say. Miss Granger, you could do so much better. You allow them to hold you back. I doubt they appreciate your intelligence, your rationality, your level-headedness. Don't you get anything in return?'

'I don't need anything in return!' Hermione said hotly. 'Their friendship is enough!'

'You deserve better,' said Voldemort, flinging open the doors to the parlour. He quelled his anger at the sight of Bella's hanging corpse, taking ten deep breaths to clear the red rage that crept in the corners of his vision. Silent now, he stalked through the room, running his white fingers over the furniture, looking for clues. His tall frame came up to Bella's hanging knees, and he turned her body gently, looking for evidence of struggle. There was none. Her nails had no breaks; there were no scratches on her skin or tears in her robes. Curious.

Hermione sat on one of the divans, looking awkward. Her brow furrowed, and she kept her gaze averted from the body.

'Does death bother you, Miss Granger?' Voldemort asked. He meant to sound interested, but his voice was so trained to disdain that it must have frightened Hermione.

Her shoulders tensed, and she nodded her head slightly.

Voldemort brought out his wand. 'Ah,' he said, caressing it. 'To be able to use this.'

Hermione glanced up, and her face went white. She shrank away from him, as though she could meld straight into the furniture and disappear. 'Please, no,' she whispered.

With a high chuckle, Voldemort placed the wand back in his robes. 'Not to use on you, Miss Granger. To investigate the crime scene. If I didn't know better, I would say you considered me to be thinking of _you_ at every moment.' He waved his hand toward the black windows, the violent storm outside. 'To use my wand…not in this storm. Not for a few days, at least.' He sighed dramatically. 'No, no. I wish I could levitate her down from there, examine the rope, see if she tried any last-minute spells before she died. But that would be impossible; no strong magic can be done in this house.'

Several moments of silence followed. Voldemort decided that he must have scared Granger into incoherence. Ah, well. You couldn't win them all.

'Sir?' she said, her voice breaking a little. 'What about the house-elves?'

'What?' Voldemort gave her a sharp look.

'The house-elves. Their magic. Could they have got her up there? Acted on someone's orders?'

Voldemort could feel his eyes start to glow. 'Dear Merlin,' he said. _Well, well_, he thought. _Hermione Granger is full of surprises_. 'I don't know,' he said. 'But it's a distinct possibility.' He stood, full of energy again. 'We should interview the house-elves. Find out who, exactly, their master is, and whether their loyalties transferred to someone else when Malfoy died. Come! We'll go to the kitchens.' He extended a spidery hand to Hermione on her sofa. A moment's hesitation later, she slipped her small, warm hand into Voldemort's own and allowed herself to be pulled up.

* * *

'Oh, Severus,' Narcissa moaned. 'Oh.' 

After their kiss in Lucius's study, they had hurried upstairs to Narcissa's bed-chamber. It was the most feminine room in the house, in pink and silver-gilt decadence. Lucius had always hated it, and had not visited Narcissa there in years. She knew he must have had other women on the side, but the subject was too painful to investigate. So, Narcissa had kept to her own rooms. When the anguish threatened to overcome her during dark, lonely nights, Narcissa would take out a book and read, or sit in front of her vanity table and brush her silky blonde hair over and over again, counting the strokes into the thousands.

Now, with Severus Snape's presence filling the room, thoughts of her tormented years flew out the window. The Potions Master had taken off his dinner jacket, and his thin, strong arms wrapped themselves around Narcissa, pulling her close against him. Narcissa was a tall woman, but Snape was taller, and he leaned his head down to kiss the sensitive underside of her jaw. He smelled of herbs, of rosemary and musk, so different from Lucius's expensive cologne. To Narcissa, Snape smelled like a real man.

His hands fumbled at the back of her evening gown, trying in vain to unclasp it. She reached behind to assist him, and with a neat flick of her fingers, her back was exposed. Snape's hands ran down her bare skin, and Narcissa stumbled with him towards her bed.

'Narcissa,' he whispered. 'Beautiful, lovely Narcissa.'

They fell together onto her canopied bed, so neglected for activities other than sleep. His lips claimed hers again, and his hands were everywhere, everywhere… 'Severus,' she said. 'Oh, it's been so long since I –'

'Me, too,' he said.

Several minutes later, just when his presence consumed her consciousness, and the inevitable loomed, a pounding started in her head. It rattled and knocked, and Narcissa realised it was not in her head, but someone at the door. Knock, knock. 'Who's there,' Narcissa sighed.

Snape swore under his breath. 'Not now, not now,' he muttered. The knocking continued, insistent of being acknowledged.

'I suppose we'd better see who it is,' said Narcissa. Her disappointment crashed around her. She had been so ready to celebrate Lucius's death in a proper manner.

'No, you had better see who it is,' said Snape. 'I shouldn't be seen in your bedroom, dearest.'

'Oh, yes. Right.' Narcissa fumbled with her evening gown, pulling it back up her shoulders. 'Just a moment!' she called to the interloper at the door. Snape buttoned his trousers, and gathered his discarded shirt. Two quick strides took him across the room, where he hid behind the floor-length brocade curtains.

Narcissa pulled herself up off the bed, re-adjusted her dress, felt her hair tumbled over her shoulders, nothing to do about it now. She opened the door.

It was Albus Dumbledore, with the Weasley boy behind him.

'Headmaster,' Narcissa said, out of breath. 'How can I help you?'

'Mrs. Malfoy,' Dumbledore said. 'I'm afraid I have some bad news.'

'What?' Narcissa's head was not working properly. Her body yearned for Snape's touch, and it was difficult to focus on anything else.

'Your sister,' Dumbledore said. 'You see, Mr. Weasley and I –' he nodded down at Ron Weasley, who stood with a mutinous glare toward Narcissa, 'we were admiring your front hall and took a look inside your parlour. I'm afraid that there has been another murder, and your sister Bellatrix was the victim.'

'Bella?' Narcissa whispered. 'No, no…' Her legs felt weak. It could not be. The murderer had struck again at Narcissa's family. 'That's impossible. She would never have let herself be so vulnerable.'

'I'm afraid it is true,' said Dumbledore. 'I would advise you to avoid that room; it is a rather graphic sight.' He cleared his throat. 'Oh, and Professor Snape?'

Narcissa tried to look surprised.

'I know you're in here, Severus,' Dumbledore said.

A rustle from behind the curtains, and Snape stepped forward, holding his bundled shirt awkwardly in front of his bare chest. 'Sir,' he said, bowing.

'Ah, there you are. I was going to ask you to take care of Mrs. Malfoy, but you are clearly already doing that.'

'Yes, sir,' Snape said.

Ron Weasley looked horrified at the sight of his half-naked Potions professor. Narcissa repressed an urge slap him for his impudence.

'I shall leave you now, Mrs. Malfoy,' Dumbledore said. 'Again, I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad tidings.' He turned to leave.

Narcissa glared at Ron Weasley. 'Oh, get over it!' she said, slamming the door in his face.

* * *

In the next chapter: 

'_Potter, I assure you, I am perfectly capable of harming you even without the use of a wand. One of these knives, perhaps?' Voldemort picked up a large butcher knife that had been lying on the wooden countertop, next to the empty sandwich plate. _

'_That's enough,' Hermione interjected. 'My Lord, I hardly think that hacking Harry to death with a butcher knife is your style.' Voldemort smiled imperceptibly at this. 'And Harry,' she continued, 'perhaps you'd better just leave. We need to talk to the house-elves.'_

'_Huh?' Harry was confused. Whose side was Hermione on, anyway?_


	8. The Witching Hour

**Author's Notes:** To my reviewers: love you guys! _Possum132, SlytherinFan15, The Almighty Yellow Crayon, supafly09, Kougaismyhomeboy, Danor, I'm Blond.James Blond., Paradox of Infinity, The Enchanted Teakettle, Maeve Morgan, _and _Leah, _thank you all so much!

Like the last chapter, this one has lots of snogging, near-snogging, thoughts of snogging, etc.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**The Witching Hour**

'I'll take you to your room now,' Draco said. It was nearly midnight, and he hated to admit it, but he was tired. Witnessing two murders and running slam into Harry Potter was enough to exhaust anyone.

'Fine,' said Ginny. She stalked beside him, arms crossed. He had said something to annoy her, but he had no idea what the transgression had been. Useless to dwell on it; she was only a Weasley after all, even if she was an uncommonly attractive one.

Three turns of the hallway later, they reached Ginny's door. 'This is me,' she said, opening the door and slipping inside.

'Wait,' said Draco, slamming his hand against the door to prevent it closing.

'What is it, Malfoy?' Ginny sounded as tired as he felt.

'We don't know that your room is safe,' he said. 'No splitting up, remember?'

'If you think for a minute that I'm going to let you spend the night with me –' Ginny's eyes flashed warning in the darkness.

'I'm just going to check your room for intruders, Weasley,' Draco said. He tried not to let hope creep into his voice. Of course he did not want to stay the night with her. He was just worried about the objective safety of one of his guests. That was all. 'Unless you want to be murdered in your sleep.'

Ginny sighed. 'All right, all right,' she said, opening the door wider to let him in.

Draco took his time searching her room. He even looked in her trunk, until Ginny protested from her sitting place on the bed. There was no one else in the room, as Draco had well known. 'Well, you're safe, I suppose,' Draco said, walking over to her.

'Thank you ever so much, Malfoy.' The sarcasm was unmistakable.

'You could show a little more gratitude,' said Draco. 'This room is probably bigger than your entire house.'

Ginny glared at him, turning her head away.

He let out a frustrated sigh. This was impossible. 'You're welcome,' he said, extending his hand.

She looked down at it, and reluctantly shook it.

'I'm going to bed,' Draco said. 'If you need me, I'm sixteen doors down on the left.'

'I won't need you,' Ginny said.

'I should hope not. But that's -- that's where I'll be.' Draco broke the handshake and left the room.

When he crawled between the cool sheets in his own bedroom several minutes later, the anger at Ginny Weasley had faded, to be replaced by a vague sense of disappointment. Now that she was out of his company, he thought it might be nice to have another person next to him, especially since a murderer was on the rampage in his vast house. Draco shivered. Lucius, Bellatrix…who was next?

* * *

After the clumsy run-in with Draco and Ginny, Harry's tiredness departed as swiftly as it had arrived. There was something about tumbling over stairs in a great heap that woke you up. He thought Pansy's suggestion of sandwiches from the kitchens was an excellent one. He was starving. Harry had barely touched his food at dinner, what with Voldemort sitting at the same table. It had been impossible to gain an appetite. Now, the night's adventures caught up with him and his stomach rumbled. He glanced over at his companion, hoping she had not heard the embarrassing growl. 

She had. Pansy smiled at him. 'You sound hungry.'

'Yeah,' he said. 'Didn't eat much tonight.'

'Can't blame you,' Pansy said. 'Not every day that the Dark Lord comes to dinner.'

'Unless you're Lucius Malfoy, apparently.'

Pansy giggled. 'Well, the Malfoys have always been the first to welcome that type of character.'

'And you're going to be a Malfoy soon, I suppose,' Harry said, making an educated guess.

Pansy fell silent for several awkward seconds, during which her heels sounded unnecessarily loud in the corridor. 'It looks that way,' she said.

He could not imagine having an arranged marriage, like the pure-bloods so often did, and he felt fleeting pity for Draco that his parents should choose his wife for him. Although, if that wife were Pansy Parkinson, he certainly could have done worse. Millicent Bulstrode, for example; Harry shuddered at the thought of being within ten feet of _her_. 'Do you want to be a Malfoy?' Harry asked.

'I used to,' said Pansy. 'I'm not sure anymore. Draco and I were always intended for one another, you know. Since we were children. I became resigned to it some time ago, and there is regard between us, but…I don't know.'

'There's something missing,' said Harry.

'Yes!' Pansy said, glancing over at him. 'Yes. Draco's heart's not in it, and mine – I guess I just try not to think too much about the alternative. Of having a choice in the matter.'

'I'm sorry,' said Harry, for want of anything better to say.

'Don't be,' Pansy replied. 'Besides, you never know what the future holds. Sometimes unexpected things happen.'

As Harry contemplated what she meant by that, he realised they had arrived at the kitchens, and everything fled his thoughts aside from food. They ducked their heads through the short doorway to find a grouping of ten house-elves, hopping about, eager to help.

'Young mistress, and young master! How might we help you's tonight?'

'Some sandwiches, I think,' said Pansy. 'Bacon rolls?' she turned to Harry.

'Perfect,' said Harry. 'And some chips.'

'Ohh, yes,' said Pansy. 'How about some more pumpkin juice?'

'Beauty. With vodka,' Harry grinned wickedly.

Pansy went into peals of laughter. 'There you have it, then!' she said with a merry snap of her fingers to the house-elves.

Five minutes later, Harry and Pansy sat on the large kitchen table, feet swinging, with plates of food on their laps. Harry held the bacon rolls, Pansy had the chips, and in convivial silence they ate together. The pumpkin juice with vodka had been a brilliant move on Harry's part, he thought, and he felt his tension over murderers and Dark Lords fade away with each passing second.

_Besides,_ he thought, _Dumbledore's around here somewhere. Even with Voldemort in the house, Dumbledore would never let us stay here if he thought it were truly unsafe. I like magical storms_. Harry smiled vaguely to himself, glancing over to look at Pansy. She got prettier, the more he looked at her as a person rather than as a Slytherin. Sure, she had a bit of a crafty, mischievous streak; but then, who didn't? Pansy knew how to be a girl. While her fear and lack of physical courage had annoyed him before, he now started to appreciate it. Made him feel more like a man, with the 'little lady' to protect.

'Good idea, with the pumpkin juice,' Pansy said appreciatively. She smiled at Harry again.

'Thanks,' said Harry.

When the bacon rolls and chips were gone, and Harry felt contented with a full stomach, he and Pansy drank their laced pumpkin juice. Pansy readjusted herself to sit cross-legged on the table itself, facing Harry. Her eyes sparkled in the dim light. 'So, Harry, tell me. What are the Gryffindor girls like?'

'They're nice,' Harry answered. 'Very nice.'

'Hmm,' said Pansy. 'I always thought you and Ginny Weasley were a bit of an item.'

Harry wondered why Pansy cared about this, but decided there was no harm in being honest. 'We kissed once,' he said. 'But after, we decided to just be friends instead. She's pretty of course, very attractive, but there wasn't really a spark. D'you know what I mean?'

Pansy nodded.

'And then,' Harry said, 'I haven't kissed anyone else, since. I've been a bit pre-occupied with defeating Voldemort. Not that I don't think about girls a lot.' He was starting to say more than he intended. It must have been the vodka, he thought, and wondered exactly how strong the house-elves had made their drinks.

'Which other girls do you think about?' Pansy asked, wide-eyed.

'Oh, you know,' Harry said. 'Pretty ones. I like girls with shiny hair.'

'Do you?' Pansy appeared to have leaned in closer to him.

Harry imagined the air between them had grown thick and warm.

'And nice eyes,' Harry said, looking deep into Pansy's olive brown orbs.

She fluttered her eyelashes, looking at his lips.

He leaned forward further.

Then, there was no space between them at all, as Harry's lips touched Pansy's, and they were soft and warm and moved in response to him. Her hand reached up to run through his unruly hair, and he set down his glass of juice to put his hands on her shoulders, her neck, the back of her head.

They broke apart, breathing heavily, and looked at each other in silence.

Several seconds later, Harry put aside their glasses of pumpkin juice on the counter, and wrapped his arms around her, and they entwined themselves on top of the empty kitchen table, kissing as though it were going out of fashion. Harry relished her slim, light body on top of him, her glossy hair falling about her face, her sweet-tasting lips.

The first knock on the door should have alerted them, but it took a creak of the hinges for Harry and Pansy to spring apart, fearful of being discovered. They were very rumpled, Harry noted with dismay. Ah, well, there was nothing for it now.

He turned his head toward the door to the kitchen. The house-elves congregated in anticipation of further service to the 'masters.' The door swung open, and Lord Voldemort stepped in.

Harry scrambled to a sitting position, awkwardly, on the table. He brought out his wand out of habit alone, and his other arm he held protectively in front of Pansy.

'Potter,' Voldemort hissed. 'Of course I would find you here.'

Hermione slipped in behind Voldemort, silent as a ghost, and closed the door behind her. 'Hi, Harry,' she said. Her brown eyes, shadowed by the light, took in Pansy's half-unbuttoned dress and Harry's messier-than-usual hair. Her eyebrows raised.

Harry glared back defiantly. 'What do you want?' he said, addressing Voldemort.

'A snack,' Voldemort said. 'What else?'

Harry suspected Voldemort was being sarcastic. 'Yeah, right,' he said.

'Potter, I assure you, I am perfectly capable of harming you even without the use of a wand. One of these knives, perhaps?' Voldemort picked up a large butcher knife that had been lying on the wooden countertop, next to the empty sandwich plate.

'That's enough,' Hermione interjected. 'My Lord, I hardly think that hacking Harry to death with a butcher knife is your style.' Voldemort smiled imperceptibly at this. 'And Harry,' she continued, 'perhaps you'd better just leave. We need to talk to the house-elves.'

'Huh?' Harry was confused. Whose side was Hermione on, anyway?

'We're making ourselves useful and trying to solve the mystery,' Hermione snapped. 'Please. Pansy, you seem to have, ahem, a _pull_ over Harry. Why don't you convince him?'

However, Harry needed no further convincing. He did not want his last stand against Voldemort to take place in the Malfoy family kitchens, as a duel with knives, with Pansy, Hermione and ten house-elves looking on. 'Let's go,' said Harry, grabbing Pansy's hand. She hopped off the table without a word to follow him. As he hustled out the door, he heard Voldemort say 'well done, my dear.' Harry scowled.

* * *

Hermione felt grateful to have an occupation for her thoughts. Without a murder mystery to solve, she thought she might go mad from the fear and tension of spending hours on end with Lord Voldemort. He was unstable, and she found it impossible to read his mood or predict his next move. Several times already, she had thought her time was up and he would murder her in cold blood. Without a wand, he would need to strangle her or some such; either way, his constant presence put her on perilous edge. 

However, she was a practical person, and did what she could to retain her dignity and control. When they reached the kitchens (and interrupted _something_ going on between Harry and Pansy Parkinson, Hermione noted), she turned her mind to the task of learning from the house-elves what had happened to Bellatrix Lestrange.

'Well done, my dear,' Voldemort said, once Harry and Pansy had left.

'Thank you,' she said. There was no need to be impolite, even with the Dark Lord. She knelt down, to bring herself to the level of the house-elves' faces. 'Hello there,' she said.

The house-elves chirped profuse greetings, offering all manner of midnight sundries in case they had not had enough for dinner.

'Enough,' Voldemort hissed, holding up a skeletal hand to silence the house-elves. 'Do any of you know how Bellatrix Lestrange died?'

The house-elves fell silent, their large watery green eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness.

Hermione's heart went out to them. They looked so bewildered, poor creatures. Probably oppressed and threatened to within an inch of their lives. 'Please, if you can help us, we would be most appreciative,' she said in a kind tone.

'Young mistress, we have nothings to say,' squeaked one of the elves. 'We are mostest sorry.' The house-elf hit itself once on the head. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry.'

'Stop that!' Hermione reached her hand to prevent the house-elf from further abusing itself. 'What's your name?'

'Heffy, young miss.'

'Heffy, my name is Hermione.'

Voldemort scoffed as he looked on. 'You're being friendly with house-elves. Unbelievable.' His eyes gleamed. 'Although, your blood status must put you toward an even keel with them.'

Hermione whirled around and stood up. 'House-elves are oppressed!' she said. 'It's nothing better than slavery. They're treated like filth, and they don't deserve it.' She heard herself growing more impassioned. Causes of justice always had been at the forefront of her mind. Hermione's greatest ambition was to reform the wizarding world away from its many discriminations. 'Of course, my Lord, I would not expect you to understand such a thing.'

'Of course I don't understand it,' Voldemort said. 'It's ridiculous! Wasting your considerable energy on house-elves. You, Miss Granger, are a fool.'

Hermione turned away. The last thing she wanted was a full-blown argument with Lord Voldemort. She doubted she would survive it. 'As you say, my Lord,' she said in a meek voice, to signify she had not further wish to dispute him. She knelt again. 'Please, Heffy,' she said, 'has anyone told any of the house-elves to do something in the parlour?'

'Y-yes, miss,' Heffy stammered.

'What was it?'

'I cannot say, miss.'

'Did it have to do with Bellatrix?'

Heffy flung herself onto hands and knees, pounding her head into the floor. 'Yes, yes, oh no, Heffy is a bad elf…'

'Have one of you handled a rope tonight?' Hermione asked. She hoped that if someone had used house-elves as a murder weapon, they would only have barred the elves from saying so directly. If she could infer, in a roundabout way, the method of murder, it would be enough.

'Rope, rope, knotted rope, oh yes,' Heffy sobbed. 'Not me. All of us. None of us, togethers…'

'Who was it, Heffy? Who told you to handle a rope?'

'Cannot say, cannot say,' Heffy shook her head stubbornly.

'It's all right, Heffy,' Hermione said. 'It's all right.' She stood and faced Lord Voldemort. 'I think they,' she gestured over the house-elves' heads, 'are the murder weapons. They are bound to secrecy as to who, but I think we can infer that someone ordered the house-elves to murder Bellatrix.'

'Hmm,' said Voldemort. Hermione knew he would not openly acknowledge that she was right. His lack of biting comment was enough for her.

'It pays to be nice to house-elves,' she could not resist adding.

Voldemort shot her a look of warning, and she lowered her eyes again.

'Child, I do believe you are underestimated by your friends,' he said.

Hermione raised her head in disbelief. Was he _complimenting_ her? This night could not get any stranger, not even if Dumbledore dressed in drag and Celestina Warbeck showed up to serenade them and Snape announced that he was giving up his job as Potions Master to live as a bohemian. She felt exhausted.

'Sir, if you don't mind, I think I need to sleep,' she said, reaching up with both hands to rub her aching shoulders.

'That would be acceptable,' Voldemort said. It was shocking how she had started to get used to his cold, smooth voice. It contained high hatred, of course, but a man could not only communicate in tones of evil. There was far more depth to Voldemort's silken voice: charisma, humour, command. It compelled Hermione more than she cared to admit. 'Allow me to escort you.'

She knew it was an order, not a request. She nodded.

They walked back through the halls, and a grandfather clock somewhere dinged midnight. As her heels clicked on the floor, Hermione realised she was still dressed in her finery from the formal dinner, her hair still pulled into an elegant twist. She had the wild thought that this was a date, and Lord Voldemort was walking her back to her door. Would he ask for a kiss? Hermione repressed a hysterical giggle.

In silence, they arrived at Hermione's door.

'Be awake at seven,' Voldemort said. 'The diagnostic potion should take about an hour to brew.'

'Okay,' Hermione said.

A moment of awkward silence hung between them.

'Er, good night, then,' Hermione said.

'Good night, Miss Granger.' Voldemort turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows of the hall.

* * *

Draco could not sleep. He tossed and turned, punched his pillow to give it better shape, counted leaping hippogriffs in his head, to no avail. Other images kept flitting through his head; the shape of a white hand in the dark, a flash of golden eyes, long red hair dancing in front of him, a pretty face. Ginny's face. He growled to himself. He could not believe he was insomniac over a Weasley. It was absurd. 

_I'm just traumatised,_ he thought to himself. _My father's been murdered, my aunt's been murdered, my mother is having an affair with my professor, and Ginny just happened to be the one who was with me when it happened. That's all_. His mind turned to her, sixteen doors down. Was she asleep? Was she thinking of him? Doubtful. She was probably scraping off the gold paint on the walls in hopes of selling it later. The uncharitable thought made him feel more normal.

A few moments later, he got up and paced around his room. His legs felt tense and restless, the urge to move them a tingling interruption on his journey toward sleep. Dressed in only his black silk boxer shorts, Draco ignored the cold seeping into the room from the storm outside. In fact, he welcomed the chill. It was a familiar friend in a house that was suddenly unfamiliar.

It must have been fifteen minutes of pacing before he heard it. A soft rapping on his door. Draco's ear perked toward the sound. Should he answer it? It could be Ginny. It could be his mother. Or it could be the murderer, lurking, waiting for him to be so stupid as to answer the door at one-thirty in the morning. With the smallest of death-wishes, he opened the door.

It was Ginny. She slipped inside his room, quick as a cat, and Draco realised that she was shaking.

'Ginny?' he whispered. There was no one else in the room, but it seemed too dark and too late to speak in normal conversational tones. 'What's wrong?'

'There was someone in my room,' she whispered back, voice quivering. 'They must have snuck in. I don't know how. I locked my door, after you left, but I heard a whisper, and someone breathing, and I thought I was dead.' She twisted her hands together. 'I just ran down the hall, fast as I could. I'm sorry.'

'It's all right,' Draco said. He noticed she wore a thin white cotton nightdress, and had not even put on slippers or a dressing-gown over the top. He pushed back the urge to wrap her into his arms, just to see what she felt like pressed up against him, with so little clothing between them.

'I –' Ginny stopped. Her eyes flicked quickly down over his naked torso, pausing, and then back up. Draco started to smirk. Was she checking him out? He thought she was. 'I think we ought to check your room for intruders.'

'I already did that,' Draco said.

'So did I,' Ginny said.

Draco was puzzled by her account. He had checked the room himself, and there was no one – oh. 'Wait a minute,' he said. 'You're in the green bedroom. There's a passage. I can't believe I forgot.'

'A secret passage? To my _room_?'

'Not to your room. It goes past it, behind the walls. There's a spy-hole, but no entrance.'

'Okay, so where does the passage go to and from?'

Draco thought for a moment, visualizing it in his head. 'It starts in my father's room, and comes out in the dungeons.'

'Who could have been in either of those places?' Ginny asked. She shivered, drawing her arms about her.

'I don't know,' Draco said. 'But I don't like it.'

'So, someone could have been spying on me as I slept.' Ginny sounded accusing.

'Well, yeah,' Draco said. He stared past her at his door. Something tickled at the back of his head, but he could not grasp it. She smelled of flowers, and it was distracting. Then, with a lunge, he grasped the bolt lock on his door and slammed it closed, securing his door.

'What was that for?' Ginny asked, startled.

'Just a hunch,' he said.

Draco could have had a heart attack, a few seconds later, when the doorknob jostled. They both turned to look at the door in fascinated, silent horror. 'The murderer…' Ginny breathed, barely audible.

'Oh, no…' Draco whispered. He put his hands on Ginny's shoulders and pulled her away from the door. The latch shuddered, and without magic wards it could have been broken with a display of force, but the potential intruder apparently wished for stealth.

They sat on Draco's mussed bed, both staring at the closed door. It held fast, and the jostling stopped. Draco thought he heard footsteps outside, but he could not be certain. What if it was the Dark Lord? He went numb at the thought, and felt profound gratitude for the magical storm thundering outside. Even Voldemort was helpless to use magic in these conditions.

'Wait here,' Draco said. He stood up from the bed and grabbed his carved wooden desk chair, carried it across the room, and lodged it underneath the doorknob. 'There,' he said. 'No one else is coming in here tonight.'

'Muggle solution,' Ginny said. He could see the white flash of her smile in the darkness.

'Logic,' Draco said. He sat back down next to her on the bed, and she yawned. 'Tired?' he asked.

'Mmhmm,' Ginny nodded. 'I hadn't fallen asleep yet.'

'Me neither,' Draco muttered. 'Well, I would offer you my sofa, but I don't have a sofa in this room.'

'I see,' Ginny said in a low tone. 'I'm sorry, Malfoy, but I don't really feel like going back to my own room.'

'I don't think you should go back to your room,' Draco said, loathing himself for the slight crack in his voice.

'Oh?'

Draco smirked at her innocence. Was the Weaslette trying to get into his bed? Well, she had succeeded, probably with no idea of the thoughts in _his_ head. 'What makes you think you're safe with me?' he leaned over, whispering in her ear.

'Just a hunch,' Ginny whispered back. 'And if you do anything to me, my six brothers will hex you within an inch of your life later on. And that's after _I_ get done with you.'

Draco shuddered, remembering a particularly nasty Bat-Bogey Hex she had used on him a few years ago. 'Fair enough,' he said. 'Here.' He pulled his heavy silk duvet up towards her. 'My bed is certainly big enough for two. And move over, you're on my side.'

She dutifully scooted to the other side, pulling the covers up in a display of modesty. He crawled in after her, feeling the warmth where she had just been sitting. He placed his head on the pillow, facing her.

She smiled at him. 'Thanks, Draco,' she said.

'You're welcome,' he replied, feeling the urge to grin like an idiot. He fell asleep in no time, listening to the rhythm of youngest Weasley's deep, even breathing beside him.

* * *

In the next chapter: 

_Two minutes later, she started to sweat. Her hands went numb, then her toes. A lacerating pain went through her chest, cutting into her heart and lungs, then settling into a clenching pain in her stomach. 'What's happening?' she croaked to herself. Her lips had gone very dry, and she was having trouble moving her tongue. _Poison. Poison._ The word played through her mind, and she stumbled up her seat, frantic to get to the dungeons._


	9. Of Potions and Masters

**Author's Notes: **Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers, _ctc, Possum132, Pussin Boots, I'm Blond. James Blond., The Enchanted Teakettle, SlytherinFan15, Maeve Morgan, Kougaismyhomeboy, KrazieChickadee, miissE, CoolMilena, GoddessQueenIsis, supafly09, ParadoxofInfinity, Chica Inglesa, Lalaith Weasley, _and_bubbles_.

And here's the ninth chapter in our story -- some of you have wondered where Dumbledore and Ron have been. You're not the only ones wondering! I am leaving teeny tiny little clues elsewhere, as well, so every possibility has some evidence behind it. But I will say no more. :-)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**Of Potions and Masters**

For the first time in years, Narcissa felt happy. Also for the first time in years, she was not alone in her bed. She turned her head to look at Severus Snape, who slept next to her. His face was unguarded, pale and worriless in sleep. She resisted the urge to run her hand along his hollowed cheek, afraid she might wake him. He did not seem the sort of man who slept easily; with a double-life as a professor by day, Death Eater by night, the strain must be immense.

Letting out a small sigh, Narcissa stared up at her canopy and let her mind turn over recent events, backtracking…oh, Severus, filling her world, his hot kisses on her skin…then she remembered the rest. Lucius was dead. Bellatrix was dead. A crack of thunder reminded her of the magical storm outside, unrelenting in negative pressure. The Dark Lord was under her roof, as was Harry Potter. Her happiness leaked away with each new remembrance.

She slipped out of bed without disturbing Severus, and crept into her dressing room. The gold clock on the shelf read eight-fifteen, and Narcissa was quite hungry for breakfast after the night's aerobic activities. She dressed quickly in a pretty morning gown, and summoned Ponkle the house-elf to set her hair. The house-elf was clumsy, but with the magical storm still pounding the house outside, there was no choice but to have a few strands of hair out of place. Once she was satisfied with her appearance, Narcissa went through her pink bedroom, caressing Snape's sleeping face as she walked past, and then downstairs to the morning room.

Noting with satisfaction the breakfast spread, she picked a grapefruit half from a tray of fruit, eating it with a small silver spoon. She was happy to be alone this morning; there were several people she did not want to run into. The Dark Lord, for one; she had always been uncomfortable around him. Those red eyes could see straight into her. Narcissa sighed as she sank into a chair. She noticed a silver goblet set out before her, filled with Atacama cactus juice, her favourite. It was very rare, and a valuable delicacy that even the Malfoys rarely indulged in. Pleased with the house-elves' apparent initiative, she took a sip, enjoying the tickle of the sweet nectar as it went down her throat. Tipping the glass back, finishing the juice, Narcissa felt warm with the well-being that sprung from having the best.

Two minutes later, she started to sweat. Her hands went numb, then her toes. A lacerating pain went through her chest, cutting into her heart and lungs, then settling into a clenching pain in her stomach. 'What's happening?' she croaked to herself. Her lips had gone very dry, and she was having trouble moving her tongue. _Poison. Poison_. The word played through her mind, and she stumbled up her seat, frantic to get to the dungeons. There, Narcissa knew, they had a stack of bezoars in the potions room. Her mind was getting sluggish, and with a weak effort she tried to snap her fingers to summon a house-elf. It could bring her the bezoar! But her fingers refused to work.

Narcissa dragged her feet out of the breakfast room, down the hall, each step feeling heavier. She felt darkness swimming on the edges of her vision. Finally she was at the stairs to the dungeons. Leaning heavily against the stone wall, her feet went down, down, down. By some miracle she did not fall and tumble down the stairwell.

Time stretched to infinity as she walked down the hall, and Narcissa's vision tunneled to include only the stone floor as it rushed up to meet her face when she fell forward. She did not feel the crack of her bones when it happened; she had lost all feeling in her body. Then darkness descended.

* * *

Hermione dreamed of a shop full of black cloaks. They all looked identical, but somewhere there was a clue; one of the cloaks was special. She did not know what she was looking for, but her hands grasped black cloth, pushing through the racks of hanging robes, flipping, pulling, tugging. She could not find it! Panic overwhelmed her; there was no time, it was imperative that she find the special cloak, and she did not even know how it was different from the rest. In her dream, she started to cry out in frustration. Her legs kicked, her arms flailed, no time, no time….Hermione awoke in a tangled mess of white sheets, which had twisted around her legs and torso. The room around her was dark. 

She breathed a sigh of relief. It was only a dream, after all. There were no black cloaks.

With one elbow, Hermione propped herself up in bed, pushing her hair out of her face. She took three deep breaths to calm herself, a technique that often came in handy during examinations. With effort, she untangled herself from her sheets, and readjusted her nightgown back into place. It was her best (and only) 'nice' piece of bed-time lingerie. It had been a gift from her grandmother, who undoubtedly hoped for Hermione to get married to some nice boy who would appreciate a pink satin slip. So far, Hermione was nowhere close to marriage. But since it was Malfoy Manor, she felt the need to dress up, even for solitary sleep, and so had packed it in her trunk.

She grabbed hold of the magical time-teller from her bedside table, and waved it to discover the hour. Nothing happened. Then it all came crashing back: the murders, the magical storm, her seven am potions-making date with Lord Voldemort. 'Oh, no,' she muttered.

Hermione got out of bed, walked across the plush blue carpet of the cavernous guest bedroom, and pulled the curtains open, just enough to peek outside. It was a tremendous sight. What should have been the Malfoy gardens were a rain-lashed, windswept wreck of tree limbs, overturned stone benches, foliage ripped from soil homes. The storm had not relented overnight, Hermione was sorry to see. It may have been morning, but the clouds were so dark that a black pall was cast over the house, making the concept of 'day' redundant. Rain pounded against the windowpane and flooded the stone balcony, and she felt sure that if she opened the window, she would be sucked outside like Dorothy in a tornado.

'Oh, no,' she repeated. She closed the curtains tight, not wishing to see the storm any longer. She trudged back to her bed, sinking onto the feather mattress, playing with the white sheets in her hands.

'I hope,' said a voice, 'that your nightmares revealed the identity of our resident murderer.'

Hermione's heart must have stopped for at least three beats. She whirled around on her knees, and held the white sheet up to her chest. 'Who's there?' she demanded.

Then, in the corner, where she knew there was an armchair, she saw a pair of eyes. Red eyes.

'You,' she said.

Lord Voldemort stood, clad in black robes, and stepped closer to where she could discern his figure in the dim light. Hermione could only stare, feeling like a rabbit caught by a snake. _How long has he been here?_ she wondered. _And does he not sleep?_ An unbidden image flitted through Hermione's mind of Voldemort in a long white night-shirt and a pointy nightcap. She nearly choked with the effort of suppressing a laugh. Then, naturally, she wondered what he really looked like under his robes. _Is he a man? A monster? _

'How long have you been here?' she asked, giving voice to her first question only.

'Long enough,' said Voldemort. He took another step towards her. 'It's only five in the morning. The bindweed flowers will not open for another three hours, at least. You should sleep.'

'I- I'm sorry, sir, but with you in the room? Forgive me if I'm a little – disconcerted.' It began to dawn on Hermione that Voldemort had been watching her sleep already, twisting with nightmare, her short nightgown pushed up…her mind stopped itself right there, out of self-preservation.

'There was nothing for me to do elsewhere,' Voldemort said, with an air of petulance. 'No Death Eaters to order about, no havoc to wreak. And I'll need you to be alive to chop the flowers. With no wards in place on your door…' Voldemort turned away a little, as though unwilling to be caught in a good deed.

'You were protecting me from the murderer?' Hermione asked, unbelieving.

'No,' Voldemort snapped. 'I simply did not want your mind to be harmed, while I still have need of it.'

'Will you always have need of it, my Lord?' Hermione did not know why she asked the loaded question, but she still fought the strands of sleep, and was not thinking clearly.

Voldemort, however, did not answer her. He sat back down in the armchair in expectant silence. Hermione sighed. Well, she had been ordered by the Dark Lord to sleep. And she _was_ tired. With one last apprehensive look at the corner where Voldemort lurked, she pulled the sheets modestly up to her neck and lay back, closing her eyes.

She did not fall back into sleep, knowing he watched her. She did not open her eyes, but felt sure Voldemort knew she was awake. Stubbornly, she refused to give up the charade, and even made an occasional few tosses and turns as though she were deep in dreams. It was impossible to tell how long she feigned sleep, but when her eyelids became weary of holding themselves closed, and her legs felt restless, Hermione made a show of yawning, blinking, and stretching.

A soft chuckle from the corner. Ah, yes, he was still there.

'Get dressed,' he said. 'We'll go to the conservatory, then the dungeons.'

Hermione shivered, and nodded. She pulled out a simple white blouse and jeans from her trunk; bundling her clothes up, she went into the bathroom and closed the door. A splash of water on her face, and she tried not to think about Lord Voldemort waiting in her bedroom. A tiny part of her wondered if she had not wandered into someone's dream, or someone's story, or perhaps a different universe. Even more baffling was his lack of outright aggression; he had not yet tried to harm her. _Of course,_ Hermione thought, _he can't be expected to unleash a constant stream of Crucios and Avada Kedavras, twenty-four hours a day. There must be some part of normality to his existence._ She was not sure which thought disturbed her more.

She cleaned herself up, put her hair into a ponytail, and decided to sweep some mascara on her eyelashes, a move that was not part of her usual daily toilette. She did not want to contemplate why she felt the need to look good. She opened the door to find Voldemort standing by her door, hand on the knob.

'Ready, child?' he said.

'Yes, sir,' she said. She grabbed her brown herringbone hunting jacket on the way out, figuring the dungeons might be chilly.

She followed Voldemort through the house. They did not run into anyone else; the other guests must be asleep. Hermione wished she could check on Harry and Ron, see how they were holding up. Make sure they did not do anything rash and stupid. In the quiet darkness of early morning, however, all was silent.

'My Lord?' Hermione asked.

He turned his head ever so slightly, to acknowledge he was listening.

'Will the bindweed flowers open without light? The storm has cut off the sun, outside.'

'They should,' said Voldemort. 'They open based on the hour, not the light.'

'Oh. Yes.'

It took at least ten minutes to go through the wings of Malfoy Manor to the conservatory, located on a spur on the eastern edge of the house. Hermione gasped when the wooden door opened onto the largest, most beautifully-appointed magical garden she had ever seen.

It was ostensibly for the growing of herbs and magical plants for use in the operations of the Manor, the potions stores, and for general showing-off of rare or beautiful specimens. But to Hermione it was the Secret Garden, from the Muggle story she had read as a child. Wild vines crawled over carved rock walls; little marble niches held carved gargoyles, benches, and pots of large exotic flowers; entire trees soared up towards clear panes of glass overarching the ceiling, braced with iron bands that gave it the look of a gilded cage. Small creatures fluttered and squeaked; Hermione recognised the chirp of birds, the song of crickets. Butterflies and fireflies flitted about, points of light or flashing wings against the dark storm outside. With a backdrop of swirling black beyond the windows, the garden was a painting of wild, riotous, colourful _life_ in an otherwise stone cold house.

'Oh!' Hermione breathed. 'It's beautiful!'

'It is, isn't it?' Voldemort said.

Hermione turned to gape at him. Impossible. Lord Voldemort, appreciate the beauty of a garden?

He noticed her stare, and smiled with a thin mouth. 'It may surprise you to know, Miss Granger, that I see beauty in many things. A well-reasoned argument, the feel of a book, leather and pages. A curse, perfectly executed. Even death, which has a symmetry of its own. Beauty. What else do you think magic is?'

Hermione was speechless. She never had possessed much of an imagination, especially in guessing of the inner nature of other people. But this – it made sense, in a way. Lord Voldemort strived for perfection, for the elegance of a finely-woven plot. And Merlin knew he had a flair for the dramatic. It should not have surprised her. She did not like how this insight into his mind made her feel: pleasant, sympathetic, just a little bit in awe of him. _No,_ she thought. 'Shall we find the bindweed flowers now, sir?'

'There,' he nodded toward a patch of vines graced by large white, trumpet-shaped blossoms.

Hermione scurried over, and brought out a fine glass collection jar for the pollen stems. Voldemort tilted his head with curiosity at the sight of the jar, and she shrugged. 'It doesn't hurt to be prepared,' she said, picking off the yellow centers of the flowers with careful fingers and depositing them in the jar. 'Even for a hunting week-end, you never know if you'll need to make a potion.'

Voldemort told her to stop after harvesting five flowers. With care, she placed the jar in her pocket and looked at him. _Waiting for orders,_ she thought of herself with a tinge of disgust. But she did nothing. She waited.

The black robes swirled behind him as he turned to leave the oasis of the conservatory. Hermione followed with one last look behind her, and a white butterfly caught her eye. It floated on the warm, thick air, flapping its wings. It was gross anthropomorphism to project things like joy or carelessness onto insects, but Hermione could not help but think of the butterfly as happy. Then it disappeared into a corner, eaten by a shadow, and Hermione shivered. She turned away and with a clang, the door to paradise closed. Lord Voldemort paused for a split-second, waiting for her, and they hurried toward the dungeons.

* * *

'Ron! There you are!' Harry exclaimed, waving to his friend, relief pouring from his palms. 'Where have you been?' 

Dumbledore stuck his head around the corner from which Ron had come, blue eyes twinkling. 'Ah, good morning, Harry.'

'Headmaster!' Harry looked from one to the other, young to old, and grinned. Where _had_ Ron and Dumbledore been all this time? He had not seen them since that fateful moment of Lucius Malfoy's murder last evening. With a slight twinge, Harry thought Dumbledore might at least have checked up on the Chosen One, made sure he was still alive and unharmed, especially with Voldemort wandering around under this very roof. Hmm. Into Harry's subconscious mind, the suspicion inserted itself that Dumbledore, and now Ron, were not telling him everything.

'Where's Parkinson?' Ron asked, peering behind Harry.

'She went to get breakfast. She said the house-elves usually make up a spread in the morning room, wherever that is…do you wanna go? I'm hungry,' said Harry.

'I'm _starving_,' said Ron, rubbing his stomach and yawning.

'If – Headmaster, shall we?' Harry turned to Dumbledore, who bobbed his head amicably and started humming some tune as he walked ahead of Ron and Harry.

'Come,' said Dumbledore, interrupting himself, 'I know the way.' He hummed again.

Harry turned his head to where Ron and Dumbledore had come from, and his brow furrowed. It was a staircase, heading down toward somewhere…the dungeons, perhaps? The stone walls looked rough, from what Harry could see. 'Where were you?' Harry asked Ron again.

'Oh, y'know,' Ron mumbled. 'Just walking around.' His face brightened. 'I slept well, though! For all that I hate the Malfoys, I have to admit their accommodations are bloody great. My room has its own house-elf assigned to it! Can you imagine! The thing's name is Grubby, or Lefty, or something.'

'Cool,' said Harry. 'Where's Dumbledore been? Did he get a guest room, too?'

'Well, yeah, of course,' said Ron. 'I think his was in another wing. I didn't see it. Wouldn't surprise me if he really spent all night pacing about the house, though.' Ron said this last in a whisper, so Dumbledore, four paces ahead, could not hear. 'Oh! That reminds me. Don't go in the drawing room. Bellatrix Lestrange was killed last night!'

'I know,' said Harry.

'You know? Did you see it?'

'No,' said Harry, 'but Pansy and I ran into Ginny and Malfoy – er, Draco. They told us.'

'Huh.' Ron's face screwed up a little. 'Malfoy? You don't s'pose _he's_ the murderer, do you? And he's supposed to be protecting my little sister! The git!'

Harry sighed. 'I don't think he'd have killed his aunt,' he said. 'Maybe his dad, but not Bellatrix. Although, with this Dark lot, who knows. My money's still on Voldemort.'

'Ugh,' Ron groaned. 'I'd almost forgotten he's around here somewhere.' They reached the morning room, and Dumbledore gestured with his hand for them to hurry along. They reached the small, square room with a tile floor and a glittering table in the middle, loaded down with every breakfast food imaginable: sausages, eggs, bacon, toast, crumpets, fruit, pastries, cereal, tomatoes, beans, coffee and tea and juice and champagne.

'Whoa,' Harry and Ron said together.

'Wait a minute,' Ron said a second later. 'You-Know-Wh—I mean, Volde—you know, he's with _Hermione_! What if she's been killed!'

'I think she's all right,' Pansy Parkinson said from the corner, where she was making herself a mimosa.

'How do you know?' Ron said with suspicion.

'We saw them last night,' she chirped. 'Harry and I. Right, Harry?'

'Oh, yeah,' said Harry.

'You've seen Voldemort?' Dumbledore asked, a touch of concern in his eyes as he buttered a croissant.

'Yes, sir,' said Harry. 'Pansy and I – uh, we went to the kitchens for a snack,' he omitted what else they had done in the kitchens, 'and then Voldemort showed up with Hermione. They said something about interviewing the house-elves. She seemed to be working with _him_ just fine,' Harry said, scowling.

'I see,' said Dumbledore. 'Well, Miss Granger is a clever girl. I have faith she will do whatever she needs to do to stay safe. And I'm quite positive that Voldemort will not harm her; it would not be in his interest to do so, especially without the use of magic.' Dumbledore started humming again, and Harry repressed a wave of annoyance at the old man. The Headmaster was far too trusting, far too lackadaisical, especially when there had already been two murders (even if they were of people whom Harry was glad to see the end of). Briefly, Harry wondered about Snape: was he still alive?

'Has anyone seen Snape?' he asked, giving voice to his thoughts.

'That reminds me!' Ron exclaimed, toast crumbs sputtering from his mouth. 'I saw Snape last night! In Mrs. Malfoy's room, half-dressed!'

'_What?_' Pansy turned with a glint in her eye. 'Snape and Narcissa? Oh, dear. Poor Draco.'

'That makes sense,' said Harry. 'When we first got here yesterday, I saw them in the drawing room, and she had her hand on his arm.'

'Spying on people, Harry?' Pansy smirked.

'Not intentionally,' Harry said. He smirked back, and he enjoyed the flush on her cheeks. He had spent the night in Pansy's room; on the sofa, yes, but still. He had liked watching her sleep.

Invoking the phrase 'speak of the devil,' Snape burst into the room, looking even more sallow than usual. 'It's Narcissa,' he announced. 'She's hurt, down in the dungeons.'

Dumbledore stood, chewing on an orange. 'What happened, Severus?'

'Just hurry, would you?' Snape glared at Harry, Ron, and Pansy. 'I need help breaking into the potions stores! If we don't go now, she'll die!'

* * *

In the next chapter:

_'Two-thirds of the Dream Team are already down there,' said Pansy._

_'Down where, Parkinson? I swear to God, if you don't tell me--'_

_'The dungeons,' Ginny interrupted. Draco's gaze met hers for a split second, then he turned and was gone. _


	10. Dangerous Dungeons

**Author's Notes:** Thanks to my reviewers, _Possum132, Pussin Boots, Maeve Morgan, ParadoxofInfinity, I'm Blond. James Blond., The Almighty Yellow Crayon, The Enchanted Teakettle, supafly09, Kougaismyhomeboy, _and _miissE_.

This chapter fills in some gaps about what's happening with Narcissa, though of course it raises other questions ;-) Some of you are squicked out by Hermione/Voldemort. I don't blame you, but too bad, mwahaha! It's one of my favourite ships (I know I'm a sicko) but fear not: they will NOT snog in this story. That would be too much, even for me.

Also, just to clarify the timeline of this chapter: Voldemort and Hermione are brewing their potion at around eight-thirty, after their collection of the bindweed flowers. This puts them in the dungeons until approximately nine-thirty. Last chapter, Narcissa Malfoy drank the poisoned juice at about nine-fifteen, until she passed out in one of the corridors. Also, Snape alerted Dumbledore, Ron, and Harry about Narcissa's poisoning at about nine-thirty, which means that Voldemort and Hermione would have just left the potions room. So, it's all happening at about the same time, back and forth. (That probably actually confuses matters... sorry!)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**Dangerous Dungeons**

The first thing Ginny noticed when she awoke was a white hand, relaxed, in front of her face. The hand extended into an arm, a strong one, wrapped around her from behind, holding her close. Her eyes flew open. _What in the world --_ ? Then she remembered. She was in Draco Malfoy's bed, and this was presumably Draco Malfoy's arm snaked about her waist.

'Oh, Gods,' she muttered. As feeling returned to her body, she felt the rest of Draco, snuggled to her back, his breath hot in her hair. She smiled a little. This was not entirely unpleasant, she had to admit. Draco may have been a git, but he was also strong, and warm, and holding her close. Then, in another wash of horror, she remembered other flashes; hot kisses, skin, touch, feeling, _oh_ feeling…Ginny blushed, forcing her mind to work properly. What had happened last night?

She had heard voices in her own room, came to find Draco, she was in her nightgown, he had locked the door and someone had tried to break in…then she had curled up and gone to sleep. With a sigh of relief, Ginny sorted out which memories were real, and which had been merely dreams. They had not kissed, nothing had happened, except Draco's somnambulant cuddling. The rest had been in Ginny's dreams, her imagination only, and she was not sure whether this made her happy or regretful. _Besides,_ she thought, _Draco Malfoy would never kiss me, not in a million years. He's probably mistaken me for Pansy Parkinson in his sleep._ At this sinking realization, she pushed his arm off of her and slipped out of bed. Draco's clock read five minutes past nine in the morning.

Ginny unlocked the door and left Draco's bedroom in silence, scampering back down the hall to her own room. The house was still quite dark; one look out her windows and Ginny saw that the magical storm raged in full force. She dressed quickly in a brown tweed skirt and green jumper.

With a snap of the fingers, she summoned a house-elf (ordering house-elves about came entirely too easy to Ginny) and followed the pointy-eared creature to the breakfast room. There she found Pansy Parkinson alone.

'Hi, Pansy,' she said.

'Hello, Ginny,' Pansy said. 'Sleep well?'

_Yes, in your boyfriend's bed_, Ginny thought. 'Oh, yes, very soundly, thank you. And you?'

'Oh, very well, thanks. The sausages are delicious this morning.'

'Mmm,' Ginny nodded, taking three. 'Is that a mimosa?'

'Yes,' Pansy nodded. 'The champagne in this house is unequalled.'

'I think I shall have one,' said Ginny. Merlin knew she could use a little pick-me-up this morning, and she was generous with the champagne and thin on the orange juice.

'Your skirt is lovely,' Pansy said.

'Thank you! And I love that shirt on you, it flatters your eyes.'

'Thank you.'

Silence.

'I think there's something wrong with Mrs. Malfoy,' said Pansy.

Ginny looked up from her breakfast. 'Pardon?'

'Harry and Dumbledore and your brother Ron were here, just a few moments ago, and then Professor Snape came in. He said that Mrs. Malfoy was hurt in the dungeons.'

'_What!'_ Draco appeared in the doorway, looking pale. Ginny blushed again, remembering her dreams of him from the night. She hoped she had not mumbled anything incriminating in her sleep. However, Draco did not even glance at her; his eyes were trained on Pansy.

'Draco!' Pansy said. 'Have some breakfast.'

'What's wrong with my mother?'

'I'm sure she'll be fine, Drakey,' Pansy said. 'Snape, Dumbledore, and two-thirds of the Dream Team are already down there.'

'Down _where_, Parkinson? I swear to God if you don't tell me—'

'The dungeons,' Ginny interrupted. Draco's grey eyes locked on hers. Then, he turned and was gone.

Pansy sighed.

Ginny finished her sausages and got halfway through a marmalade-slathered scone when she lost her appetite. 'I'm going to the dungeons,' she said.

'Suit yourself,' said Pansy, examining a fingernail.

* * *

'Double, double, toil and trouble,' Voldemort murmured to himself in a sing-song. 'Fire burn and cauldron bubble.' He held a secret love of Shakespeare, especially the tragedies. 

He stirred a viscous pink liquid manually using a long wooden spoon, three clockwise turns for every four counter-clockwise. The potion was starting to resemble Tummy Tonic. On the other side of the room, Hermione Granger rolled the bindweed pollen between her fingers to create a fine powder which would be added to the potion at the last minute. It was coming along nicely; the other ingredients had been in stock and if the potion worked properly, it would turn from bubble-gum pink to bright, frothy blue as reaction to poison.

Fortunately, Lucius Malfoy kept the potions cauldrons heated and ready at all times with low-light magical fires. If the fires had been dead, it would have been impossible to make the potion without the use of wands. Voldemort felt happy for the Slytherin motto of 'always be prepared.' Or was that the Muggle Boy Scouts? Voldemort could not remember. He swore sometimes that Wormtail had done something wrong in the re-birthing ritual to make him senile.

As he stirred the potion, his eye fell upon Hermione again. It was too bad she was a mudblood; something about her presence soothed him. Perhaps it was her clear, precise voice, or her ruthlessly logical manner, or her dry and unimaginative mind. Perhaps it was her self-isolation from her peers; he had sensed it as he probed gently into her head, the intrusion so soft she would never notice it. Her back was turned to him now; her brown hair was pulled up into a casual ponytail, leaving a few strands hanging. One small tendril of a curl grazed the back of her white neck, and Voldemort stared at it. Such a pretty little neck, undoubtedly soft skin. He could break it, with one wave of the wand, snap it in two. He could make it bleed. Or he could reach out with his fingers and touch it, gentle and tender, making her shiver against her will.

'Miss Granger,' he said, and she turned. 'We will need the asphodel powder. It's in the storage closet.'

'Yes, sir,' Hermione said, reaching for the closet. She opened the door, and let out a shriek of surprise. Voldemort's skin jumped. He whirled to see…Minerva McGonagall? It had to be. She was much older than when he had last seen her, but the green eyes and stern expression were unmistakable. Yeurgh. She had not aged well.

'Hermione Granger,' Minerva said, shaking a stack of papers at Hermione. Voldemort was reminded of how McGonagall had been when she was Head Girl, three years ahead of him at Hogwarts. Uptight, self-righteous, and rule-abiding; add fifty years of wrinkles and it was not a pretty sight.

'Miss Granger, you have failed! Every single on of your NEWTs is a T! Troll! Troll! You've failed!'

Hermione stepped backward, shaking her head, her lip quivering. 'No,' she whispered, 'no, no, I'm sorry, I tried, no…'

When Voldemort saw the fear on Hermione's face, the pale look of a worst nightmare confronted, he realised that Minerva McGonagall was not actually in their presence. _A Boggart,_ he thought, and automatically reached for his wand to dispel it. Then he remembered he could not, and felt a surge of irritation.

'You are a failure, Miss Granger! You are expelled! And I will have to burn your copy of _Hogwarts: A History_!'

'No!' Hermione cried.

Even Voldemort felt a wrench of despair at the idea of _Hogwarts: A History_ being burned. 'Miss Granger!' he said, forcing her attention away from the Boggart. 'You do know what this is?'

She gulped once and seemed to come back to herself. 'A Boggart,' she whispered. 'It's just a Boggart.' Then her eyes grew bright with panic again as the false McGonagall advanced on her, waving the papers with large, red 'Ts' marked on them. 'What do we do?' Hermione shrilled.

Voldemort glanced around the room, looking for something to force the creature into retreat. He grabbed a jar of Sizzling Serum, a toxic-acid substance that was used to scour dirty cauldrons. He twisted off the lid and splashed the substance all over Minerva McGonagall, a tiny, little-boy part of him laughing with glee as he did. The Boggart crumpled in on itself, squalling in protest, and turned into a black shadow that fled back into its closet. Hermione slammed the door on it.

'Thanks,' she said, pressed up against the wood.

He nodded his head once at her. How interesting to know that Granger's worst fear was failure. It shouldn't be, he thought, because she seemed to be very capable. Perhaps that was what motivated her: an attempt to prove that fear out of existence. Very interesting indeed.

'You've read _Hogwarts: A History_?' he asked.

She smiled wistfully. 'Oh, yes. It's my favourite book.'

'Mine too!' Voldemort said, then cleared his throat. 'I especially enjoy the chapter on the changing enchantments and hidden rooms.'

'Chapter Twenty-six!' Hermione exclaimed.

'I have a first edition.'

'Really?' Hermione squeaked. 'How in the world did you find it?'

'Stole it from the possessions of some old lady I murdered.'

'Oh.' Hermione realised what he had said, and a mix of horror and sympathy played across her face. Voldemort laughed, high and cold, at the bookworm girl. She was properly appalled at the admission of homicide, but he could see the understanding, too; if there was one thing to commit murder for, a first edition of _Hogwarts: A History_ might be it.

'It's time for the bindweed pollen,' Voldemort said. Hermione looked relieved to have something to do, and she brought the yellow powder from the other side of the room. 'Good girl,' he whispered.

* * *

Draco felt frantic. What had Pansy been talking about, his mother hurt? Was Pansy pulling his chain? It would not be the first time. Yet there had been the ring of truth about it; first his father, then his aunt, why not his mother? The thought spurred him to run faster down the stone steps into the guts of Malfoy Manor. 'Mum!' he shouted as he ran through the dank corridors. 'Mum!' 

'Mr. Malfoy,' said a voice, and Draco skidded to a halt as Professor Snape materialised outside a low doorway.

'Where is she?'

'Someone has poisoned her. I've gotten help to break into the potions stores and fetch a bezoar. Without magic, even I cannot open locked doors.' Snape seemed very calm, but Draco saw the little vertical line between his brows that indicated he was very worried. 'Come, I'm certain she wants to see you.'

Draco entered the small room, one of the dungeon cells from the looks of it. The door was left open and his mother lay upon the wooden cot, her face deathly pale but eyes open. Dumbledore was there, and Potter and Weasley stood behind him, eyeing Draco with suspicion.

'Mother!' Draco rushed forward to Narcissa and grasped her hand.

Her lips moved in response, but no sound came out. Her eyes moved to look at Draco, but her neck and muscles stayed paralysed. He barely noticed when the others, Professor Snape included, left the room. He heard a muffled clanging; they must be breaking into the storeroom where the bezoars were kept.

'Mother,' he whispered again. He hoped she did not die. Who would do this? Who was killing off his family, one by one? Draco went through the party guests, looking to assign blame for his current situation. His mind rested on Potter. The old antagonism burned in Draco's chest as he thought about his nemesis. Potter had every reason to want the entire Malfoy family dead; he was probably going through them one by one. Or Ron Weasley! Now that Draco thought about it, he decided it was Saint Potter and his entire motley crew, in cahoots as usual, taking matters in their own hands.

Draco looked up as Snape came back into the room, holding a bezoar in his hand. 'Move aside!' Snape snapped.

He scrambled up and watched Snape shove the bezoar down his mother's throat. Draco suppressed the urge to gag, or cry out in protest at the violence of it.

Narcissa's chest heaved up in down and her eyes grew wide and frenzied. Her hands grasped Snape's robes, and Draco felt a twinge of possessive annoyance. In the excitement of the morning, he had almost forgotten that he had witnessed Snape kissing his mother only last night. _And the gods only know what else they did,_ his mind added in an unwelcome note. His lip curled under in distaste.

The bezoar worked, and Narcissa coughed once and sat up, bracing herself with her hands on the hard wooden slats. 'Oh,' she whispered. 'Draco!' she said, reaching out for him.

Draco sat next to her and embraced her with force, missing the look of total relief on Snape's face. 'You're all right,' he said. 'It's all right.' He turned up to face Snape. 'Where are the others? Dumbledore, and Potter?'

'They've stayed in the potions room. Someone else was there before; ingredients were out and a cauldron was freshly used. The Headmaster is trying to determine what the poison was.'

'Someone was down here brewing potions to kill my mother with!' Draco was furious. Using his own potions stores against him. Intolerable.

'I'm not sure,' Snape said. 'It did not look like any poison known to me. Narcissa?' his hand reached out to support her head. 'Do you remember what happened?'

'The juice,' she croaked. 'The juice.'

'What kind?' Snape prompted. 'Where did you get it?'

'It was on the breakfast table,' she said. 'Atacama cactus juice.'

'It's her favourite,' Draco said. 'The murderer must have known that.'

'Not necessarily,' Snape said. 'It could have been an accident. You are aware of the properties of Atacama cactus juice?'

Draco shook his head.

'If it is not prepared and filtered in the most delicate manner, it is a toxic substance, a neurological poison. This could have been an accident of negligence on the part of the house-elves or the manufacturer. Or, it could have been deliberately mis-prepared. Or, it could have been external poison.'

'I—I drank it all,' Narcissa whispered. 'I'm sorry there's none left for you to look at.' She looked pale and miserable.

'It's all right, it's not your fault,' Snape cooed.

Draco blinked at the professor, feeling nauseated. If there was one thing he did not want to witness in the morning, it was Snape talking in lovey-dovey tones.

The sappy moment was interrupted by a light knock. It was Dumbledore. 'It was not poison in the cauldron,' the old man said. 'It was an ingenious mixture designed to _detect_ poison, I think. I found remnants of bindweed pollen, as well as asphodel powder. Improvised, of course, but perfectly functional.'

'Ah,' said Snape. 'But who could have brewed it?

* * *

In the next chapter: 

'_How lucky,' Voldemort said, 'that Severus knew exactly where to find you.'_

'_Yeah!' Draco shouted. His outburst was quelled with a look of irritation from Voldemort, and Harry almost felt sorry for Draco Malfoy. If Voldemort had had the full use of his wand, Draco would probably be on the receiving end of the Cruciatus Curse for speaking out of turn._

'_Does that mean that Professor Snape is the murderer?' Pansy asked, blinking in innocence.

* * *

_

**A/N:** Voldemort and Hermione's small conversation about _Hogwarts: A History_ is a little homage to the fic 'Bookworm,' by Lunalelle, who is the master of the Hermione/Voldemort pairing. Check it out if you dare!


	11. Chess Match Revenge

**Author's Notes: **Big thanks to my reviewers! I never expected such a response, with all your ideas, some of which are very close! Others not so much... mwaha. To _Possum132, Pussin Boots, The Enchanted Teakettle, Kougaismyhomeboy, PsychoticPoet, Himura-Dumbledore, James-Padfoot, The Future Mrs. Grint, supafly09, Maeve Morgan, Nosilla, M, miissE, MissGinervaZabini, ParadoxOfInfinity, v-x.Lori.x-v, _and _KrazieChikadee_, all my gratitude!

Yes, I AM drawing a Voldemort-Mr. Burns parallel. Don't you all see it? Also, Hermione's 'conversion': it is supposed to be half-serious (I almost believe her capable of it, she is very ruthless even in canon) but half-silly too. For those of you waiting for some Ginny and Draco action, that's coming up in the next chapter. :-)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**Chess Match Revenge**

The morning passed quickly for Harry, after all the drama with Narcissa Malfoy. He had raced down to the dungeons with Ron and Dumbledore, not out of any particular goodwill toward Mrs. Malfoy but rather a morbid curiosity and undying hero complex. He was a Gryffindor, after all; it was in his nature to rush to those in need. As it had turned out, Harry had not been very useful; Ronsmashed the potions door with one slam of the shoulder, and thenSnape had given Narcissa a bezoar and she was fine. It did beg the question of who had poisoned her juice, and Harry and Ronheaded back upstairs, running into Ginny on the way.

'She's fine,' Harry said to Ginny. 'Mrs. Malfoy, I mean. They found a bezoar and she's alive.'

'Good,' Ginny said. 'And Draco?'

Harry peered at her. 'What do you care?'

'Um, well, it's just that I'm supposed to keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't go nuts and start slashing people, you know?' Ginny hedged.

'He's with his mummy,' Ron said. 'Little mummy's boy.'

'Oh, no one asked your opinion, Ron,' Ginny snapped.

Harry and Ron looked at each other, mystified. Ginny had been around Draco too long, that was clear. It must have put her in a bad mood.

'Let's go back to the breakfast room. There might be more poison in the food,' Harry said, worried that Pansy might have eaten something intended to kill.

There they found Pansy in good health, and since the table seemed bereft of further poisons, the group decided to pass the morning in the library. Harry and Ron played chess, Ginny and Pansy found some silly romance books that belonged to Narcissa, and the hours ticked by in relative congeniality. It was too bad, Harry thought, that the storm prohibited any hunting. He had been looking forward to the magical version of the popular British pastime. As it was, the appearance of normality settled upon him, as Ron beat him in game after game of wizard's chess.

No one broached the subject of murders, attempted murders, and the ever-looming presence of Lord Voldemort lurking somewhere about the Manor. It was a false calm, Harry knew, but he was content to stay in peace for a little while. Everyone seemed to be getting along, even Ginny and Pansy. It was strange; he would have thought they would be enemies, but neither showed hostility to the other. _Girls,_ thought Harry. _I will never understand them_. It was almost as though they had been secret friends all along, in spite of the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry. Harry knew Ginny Weasley was popular, but he did not realise she was even popular amongst Slytherins. _Best not to mention that to Ron_, he thought as he moved his knight to take Ron's bishop.

'Bugger!' Ron said. Then he moved his queen forward, followed two turns later by his remaining bishop in a pincer move that left Harry check-mated once again.

A house-elf materialised at one o'clock to announce lunch. Harry felt reluctant to go; who knew if more food would be poisoned? But like a bad penny always turning up, Professor Snape entered the library, bearing orders from Dumbledore.

'The Headmaster has decided we should have a meeting,' Snape said. 'Everyone. Let's go.'

Harry and Ron scrambled up, afraid Snape would take house points if they didn't, despite the summer holidays. Old habits died hard.

Back in the dining room, Dumbledore presided over the company. Narcissa sat in the opposing chair, looking pale and sipping on a brandy. Draco sat next to her, holding her hand, and Harry could not help the little pang of understanding. Whatever else might be said about Draco Malfoy, the kid loved his mother.

Harry automatically looked for Hermione, but she was not present. Neither was Voldemort. Thankful for the latter, but worried about his best friend, Harry turned to Dumbledore. 'Where are the others?'

'Miss Granger will be joining us shortly, I am quite sure,' Dumbledore said with an airy wave. Harry wanted to shake the old man. He was tired of not being told anything, like how _exactly_ Dumbledore knew Hermione was alive and well. Pushing down the urge to shout, Harry instead bit the inside of his cheek and took a seat next to Pansy Parkinson.

'Thank you all for coming,' Dumbledore said. 'As we are all aware, there has been an attempt on Mrs. Malfoy's life this morning. This is a very serious matter, which –' he was interrupted by the door swinging open. Voldemort walked in, and Harry reached for his wand again. When he saw Hermione behind him, Harry breathed in relief. At least she did not look hurt or upset.

'How kind of you to invite us to the party,' Voldemort said to Dumbledore.

'My Lord,' Snape intervened, bowing to Voldemort, 'there has been an attempted murder. Narcissa's goblet of Atacama cactus juice was contaminated, and her life was spared with mere minutes.'

Voldemort raised his hairless brows. 'Really.'

'Yes.'

'Who found Mrs. Malfoy?' Voldemort asked.

'I did, my Lord,' Snape said.

'Where?'

'He found me in the dungeons,' Narcissa spoke up for the first time, her throat sounding hoarse. 'I went looking for a bezoar, but I was paralysed and fell before I could reach the potions stores.'

'How lucky,' Voldemort said, 'that Severus knew exactly where to find you.'

'Yeah!' Draco shouted. His outburst was quelled with a look of irritation from Voldemort, and Harry almost felt sorry for him. If Voldemort had had the full use of his wand, Draco would probably be on the receiving end of the Cruciatus Curse for speaking out of turn.

'Does that mean that Professor Snape is the murderer?' Pansy asked, blinking in innocence.

'I am _not_ the murderer!' Snape said.

'No one said you were, Severus,' Dumbledore said.

'I think he is!' Draco insisted. 'Only he could have brewed the poison! Or known about how the Atacama cactus juice can be toxic if not purified!'

'Actually, I knew that,' Hermione interjected.

'Oh, perfect,' said Draco. 'The mudblood has something to say. Tell me, Granger, was it _you_ in the potions storeroom this morning? Was it you who poisoned my mother, then?'

'No,' Hermione said.

'That's enough,' said Dumbledore. 'I suggested this pow-wow to make sure everyone is still alive, and to discuss the poisoning of Mrs. Malfoy. Assigning premature blame will not help the situation. Now, Narcissa, if you could please tell us how you came to drink the poison this morning?'

Narcissa nodded. 'I went down to have breakfast,' she said, 'and I saw that there was a goblet of cactus juice. It's not unusual; it's my favourite drink and the house-elves prepare it for me once in awhile. I drank it, and then the poison set in. I went numb and collapsed in the dungeons.'

'The house-elves…' Voldemort said. Harry noticed him exchange a glance with Hermione, and Harry felt a surge of anger. How dare Voldemort presume such familiarity! He was trying to turn her to the Death Eaters, Harry was sure of it. And Hermione! She was not making any visible protest at spending time with Lord Evil Wannabe-Dictator himself. What if she was – Harry felt sick at the thought – actually enjoying the company of Lord Voldemort? It was too horrible. He decided to have a word with Dumbledore; perhaps they could re-arrange the partnerships today.

'If you don't mind, sir,' Hermione said to Dumbledore, 'we have some interesting findings from a diagnostic potion we brewed this morning.'

'Aha!' Dumbledore said, and Harry realized it must have been Hermione and Voldemort in the dungeons before them this morning. 'By all means, tell us,Miss Granger,' Dumbledore said.

'With the use ofthe potion, the – Lord – _we_ have determined that Lucius Malfoy did _not_ die of poison. The toxic tea had not touched his lips at the time of death. That leaves only the knife and the revolver as possible murder weapons.'

'How do you know all that?' Ron blurted.

Hermione got her familiar expression of intellectual condescension. 'Because, Ron, the diagnostic potion would have turned blue and foamy at contact with poison. When applied to Lucius Malfoy's lips, the potion stayed pink. No poison.' She heaved a long-suffering sigh at the end of her explanation.

'You've been working with _him_, have you?' Ron turned on Hermione, gesturing at Voldemort but not looking at him. 'Enjoying yourself, are you?'

'Knock it off, Ron!' Harry said. It was a little close to the truth for Harry's liking. 'Professor Dumbledore? Can we switch the partners around now?'

Pansy turned her head to glare at Harry, and he sent her what he hoped was a pleading look.

'I don't see any need for that,' Dumbledore said. 'Unless, of course, anyone feels unsafe. Mrs. Malfoy, we would understand completely if you chose someone else to stay with for the duration of the storm.'

Snape let out a huff of exasperation. 'She will be fine, I assure you.'

'It's fine, Headmaster,' Narcissa said.

'Anyone else, then?' Dumbledore's eyes twinkled about the room. 'Miss Granger, are you all right?'

Voldemort answered for her. 'Of course she's all right, you old fool. You never did give me any credit.'

'Hermione, come with me,' Ron suggested. 'Let the Headmaster take care of –' he gulped, 'of You-Know-Who.'

Hermione looked torn. 'Ron, I –'

'Absolutely not,' Voldemort said.

'Ron, I'm fine,' Hermione said.

For the first time, Dumbledore looked worried at Hermione's acquiescence. Harry exchanged a meaningful look with Ron, and then Ginny. _Next thing, Hermione'll have a Dark Mark_, Harry thought grimly.

Mercifully, Voldemort left the room rather than stay for lunch, whispering something in Hermione's ear on the way out. Harry felt his mood deteriorate, and he gestured for Hermione to sit on the other side of him. She sank into her chair with an air of fragility.

'What, Harry?' she whispered.

'What's going on? Switching to Voldemort's side, are you?' Harry whispered back, as cress sandwiches and smoked salmon rolls appeared on their plates.

'Of course not!' she hissed. 'I'm just trying to get out of this without anyone else getting killed! At least we've made some progress on who killed Malfoy.'

''We'! Hermione, I don't think you realise how manipulative Voldemort is. He'll try to turn you. He's dangerous, can't you see it?'

'Harry, just leave me alone. I know what I'm doing. Everything is under control.' She bit into a sausage with ferocity, turning away to talk to Ginny.

* * *

All afternoon, Hermione tried to ignore her own thoughts. After lunch, the whole group retired to the library, since the more comfortable parlour and drawing room were each occupied by dead bodies. Hermione picked up a book on magical wards and defence systems, but she glanced across the words, unable to concentrate. Ron and Dumbledore were engaged in a perfectly matched game of wizard's chess, and the sounds of smashing pieces tore through Hermione's mind. Narcissa was curled on the sofa, reading a book; Snape sat next to her, staring into the fire. Ginny and Draco talked in low tones from the corner, and Harry and Pansy were taking bets on who would win the chess match. Only such trying circumstances could have forced this strange truce. 

After about fifteen minutes, Hermione decided it was no use. Her mind kept wandering back to Lord Voldemort. He was horrible, she decided. He was dangerous. He was unstable, psychotic, unpredictable. He was brilliant, creative, cunning. For all she hated Voldemort and the things he had done to her friends, Hermione could not purge him from her thoughts. He was a disease that, once entrenched, occupied her consciousness entirely. She sat up and approached Ginny and Draco.

'Want to play Charades?' she suggested.

Draco sneered at her. 'As if I would associate with the likes of you and your filthy blood.'

'I'd love to,' Ginny said in defiance, shooting Draco a death glare. 'Let's get Harry and Pansy to join us.' She put her arm through Hermione's and flounced off, away from Draco.

'I don't want to play Charades,' Pansy whined. 'I'm no good at it.'

'Even better,' Hermione muttered to herself.

'Harry,' Pansy said, 'let's just watch the chess match.'

'Okay,' Harry said.

'What now?' Ginny asked, rolling her eyes in Pansy's direction.

'Let's just talk for awhile,' Hermione said. They took seats on the other side of the room and settled in for a chat. Ginny was Hermione's only real girl-friend, the one she could count on to gossip about boys and clothes. Today, however, Ginny seemed distracted and kept glancing over to Draco, sitting now at his mother's feet. And Hermione could not think of a neutral topic of conversation. She was afraid she would talk about the Dark Lord, his mind and temper. Of course, Ginny would be able to offer advice on that subject, having been possessed by his sixteen-year-old self, but Hermione did not want advice. She had always been stubborn about asking other people for information, and she preferred to work through this crazy weekend on her own intellect, thank you very much.

'I'm tired,' Narcissa announced. 'I think I'll have a lie-down.'

'Do you need an escort to your room?' Dumbledore offered, standing up.

'Oh…' Narcissa paused, her eyes flicking over to Professor Snape. Hermione felt like giggling. Who would have guessed, the Potions Master and Mrs. Malfoy? It looked like something was going on between them.

'I'll go,' Draco interrupted. 'Come on, Mother.'

The two surviving Malfoys swept from the room, leaving Snape glaring at the door.

'Is there something going on with the two of them?' Hermione whispered to Ginny, nodding at Snape.

'Oh!' Ginny said. 'You don't know! Draco and I saw them, snogging, in here, last night! It was full-on, too. Narcissa's fingers were all over that greasy hair.'

'Ewww,' Hermione said.

'Shhh, here comes Snape,' Ginny muttered.

'Miss Weasley and Miss Granger.' Snape towered over them, looking down his massive hooked nose.

'Sir?' they chirped in unison.

'Which of you will play a game of chess with me?'

They gaped at him. He could not be serious. Ron and Dumbledore had ended their game in a stalemate, leaving the board free, but even so…chess with Snape? _Which of us is the true Gryffindor?_ Hermione wondered.

Ginny spoke up. 'I would, Professor, but I don't want you to feel embarrassed when I beat you,' she said with a charming smile. 'It might make our Potions classes rather awkward. Pardon me.' She slipped out of her chair, winking at Hermione.

Hermione was left with no choice but to say yes, and with the thought that Ginny really should have been sorted into Slytherin. It was as thought Ginny had an excuse-making factory hidden away in her pocket, always weaseling her way out of things.

Snape took her arm (_Ewww,_ Hermione thought again) and they sat opposite one another at the chess board. She knew she was terrible at chess, and had a sinking feeling that Snape was very good. How humiliating. Sure enough, Snape beat her in only ten turns, and Hermione felt disgusted with herself and annoyed at Snape's gloating expression. She turned her face away; she had never been a gracious loser.

'It appears your base of knowledge does not extend to chess, Miss Granger,' Snape sneered. 'It's a pity for you; you are aware that only the best strategic minds have skill at this ancient game. Clearly you lack the kind of creative thinking that marks a good chess player.'

Hermione's cheeks burned. In school she could brush off Snape's caustic comments toward her as mere Slytherin prejudice, but the combination of her overwrought nerves and the forced intimacy of being stranded in the same house made Snape's rudeness seem personal. For a shining moment, she contemplated revenge; wouldn't it be nice for Snape to meet the same fate as Lucius Malfoy? No more points taken unfairly from Gryffindor, no more cruel, biting man to erode away at her self-confidence. Hermione's eyes glinted as she looked back at Snape. 'No, I don't have the mind for it,' she said. 'Good game, Professor. Excuse me.'

Snape looked surprised at her meek words, and Hermione felt satisfied. She stood, her thoughts bearing her out of the library and toward the one place she liked in this wretched house: the conservatory.

She mumbled something to Ron and Harry about needing a 'feminine item' from her room, and as she predicted they did not press the issue. Then she walked out the door, alone with her swirling thoughts about power, revenge,

Like an infection, Voldemort's words about how her friends did not appreciate her had grown and spread in tendrils through her mind, and Hermione began to thinkthe Dark Lordwas right. They took advantage of her! Ron and Harry both! They used her to do their homework for them, make sure they stayed on track and passed their classes, all the while using her good nature against her. The only reason she even _had_ friends was because she pulled their intellectual load for them. And then Ron had the gall to tell her what to do, and put her down for dating Viktor Krum, and say unkind things about her that she brushed off with the desperation borne of loneliness. _Better to have mean friends than no friends at all,_ she had thought. Well, not anymore. Now there was someone else to appreciate her talents for what they were.

Hermione felt sure that the strength of her thoughts would draw Voldemort towards her, and she slipped into the door of the conservatory to wait.

She stood in the middle of the garden, still as a statue. The butterflies and glow-worms from before had gone into hiding, and the birds had ceased their song. She was aware of the warm plant life around her, the flowers and the trees, sighing in their rhythms, and the thought soothed her. The air was warm and thick, a blanket of reassurance that life goes on. She breathed it in, the fragrance of flowers and soil and green verdant vines. All was dark; even the witch-lights had gone out, and the space was illuminated only by the occasional flash of lightning from outside, sending wild shadows of leaves and tree limbs across her eyes.

There were no footsteps, not a sound of company, but she felt his presence enter the room. She felt the sudden swirl of cold air, as though he were sucking the life out of the place, out of her. She saw the shadows become darker and deeper, like responding to like. Her bones were frozen, her muscles like stone. He was behind her now.

It was his fingers she felt first, touching the back of her neck. She shivered. The cold skeletal hand caressed her, moved around to the front of her throat, cupped her jaw and turned her face backward towards him. In the darkness, she could not see, and for that she was grateful.

'The night is hungry for you,' he murmured, voice dripping like cool smooth honey. She felt his words take her, and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

'Yes, my Lord,' she whispered back.

His other hand found her left arm, and pushed up the sleeve to touch the thin soft skin of her forearm. Her skin was white and unblemished now, but it gave her relief to think of his Mark seared into her. No more fighting, no more doubt. She could give in to the Dark Arts, she would be acknowledged and appreciated in ways she could not have dreamt. Power for her, the little Muggle-born witch with two dentists for parents. She smiled in the darkness, and she knew Voldemort could sense it.

'You'll be my best little Death Eater, won't you?' he said.

'Yes, my Lord,' Hermione said again, relishing the loss of control. She felt herself spinning, all her books and notes and calendars and categories going up in a dark wind. Now, let Voldemort mould her mind, tell her what to do, take away the burden of choice. She would be his tool, to use as he wished.

'Eeeexcellent…' Voldemort said, pressing his fingers together. 'Smithers?'

'Huh?' Hermione said.

'What?' Voldemort said. 'Sorry, don't know what possessed me.'

'Do you have any orders for me, my Lord?'

'Yes. Let's murder Snape.'

'Sounds good to me,' Hermione said.

They left the conservatory together.

* * *

In the next chapter: 

_Ginny's head snapped up and she ducked further into the niche, pressing herself close to the wall. She had heard footsteps, she was sure of it. _

_Breathing through her mouth in silent fear, Ginny wished she could meld into the wall, and hoped that the small niche would be enough to disguise her. The footsteps drew closer. Ginny winced, wishing for the use of her wand, for anything to defend herself…_


	12. The Second Night

**Author's Notes: **Big thanks to all you wonderful reviewers! The response to this story is amazing to me, and I appreciate all of you who click on that little 'review' button. To _Possum132, jjp91, KrazieChikadee, Maeve Morgan, Pussin Boots, The Enchanted Teakettle, Chica Inglesa, ooarienetteoo, nevermore evermore, ParadoxOfInfinity, aquamarine, Kougaismyhomeboy, Tanelle, M, PsychoticPoet, supafly09,_ and _SerpentClara, _cheers to all!

This chapter is mainly from Ginny's point-of-view, with a little Narcissa interlude.The parts from Ginny's perspective do have a purpose: to tell us exactly who is up and about in those upstairs corridors. And yes, Narcissa's 'plan' is hasty and ill-conceived, but hey she's a grieving widow, right?

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

**The Second Night**

Ginny was in turmoil. She was alone for the moment as she changed her clothes for dinner and fixed her hair into a multi-layered twist that she knew suited her. Outside her door, Harry waited. Somehow the security partnerships had gotten mixed around, and Harry had taken Ginny up to her room to change, and Pansy gone in search of Draco. And Ginny was sorry for it.

She hated what was happening to her. It was bad enough to be trapped in a house with a murderer, and with Lord Voldemort, and with two dead bodies. Every turning of a corner was tense, every whisper and footfall a potential warning of death. Malfoy Manor was a maze of dangers, cold and scary with its secret passages and probable booby-traps for the unwary. But it was not these life-threatening things that disturbed her the most.

It was that heat in her bones whenever Draco Malfoy was near, that intense awareness of his position, that funny shiver when he walked past her or brushed against her. Ginny had thought herself immune to the charms of Hogwarts' resident Prince of Slytherin, especially since until this weekend he had shown nothing but disdain for her and her family. Now, however, after sleeping in his bed, the warmth of him pressed securely against her backside, Ginny's thoughts took themselves in an entirely new direction. She growled softly to herself. Of all the inconvenient things, to develop a crush on Draco Malfoy!

After sweeping on more makeup than her usual, Ginny left her room in her best clothes, a knee-length brocade skirt and a satiny top. Harry glanced at her with appreciation, and offered his arm for Ginny to take. When she slipped her hand through his elbow, she tried to ignore the feeling of gawky, bony awkwardness as they walked together.

The house-elves set out a full dinner in the dining room, but the social limits had been so pressed all day that the guests would not be eating as one party. Instead, an orchestrated dance of avoidance was performed, and Harry and Ginny entered the room with Ron and Dumbledore. On the way in, they ran into Professor Snape and Mrs. Malfoy, each of whom had furious expressions on their faces as if at the tail end of an argument. Harry shrugged at Ginny as if to say, 'who knows?'

Ginny's appetite was dull and she poked at her potatoes with a heavy silver fork, her mind unable to keep itself from the subject of one Draco Malfoy. He was a wanker, that was certain. Whenever Ginny would start to become genuinely fond of him beyond the physical attraction, he said some nasty or prejudiced thing. He made things difficult. Ginny sighed. Was he with Pansy? Were they having a reunion after being separated the previous night? Next to her, Harry was equally quiet, and Dumbledore's humming of 'The Merry Widow Waltz' was getting on her nerves.

'Where's Pansy?' Ginny asked Harry, in what she hoped was a nonchalant tone of voice.

'Dunno,' Harry said.

'Huh,' Ginny said.

'Has Hermione been acting funny to you?' Harry asked.

Ginny thought for a moment. To be honest, she had been too preoccupied with her own shifting romantic feelings to notice Hermione's behaviour. But perhaps her friend had been a bit high-strung. 'She's been tense, I s'pose. Why?'

Ron gave a dark look from across the table. 'She's been spending all this time with You-Know-Who! What else?'

'Oh, come on,' Ginny said. 'You don't honestly think she's in danger, do you? Headmaster Dumbledore, you would never let her go off with You-Know-Who if you thought he'd hurt her, would you?'

Dumbledore tilted his head and twinkled his eyes. Ginny had not realised that the 'twinkling eyes' could be turned on at will, but there they were.

'I have faith in Miss Granger's ability to stay safe. If she felt threatened, don't you think she'd have come to us?' Dumbledore said.

'It's not that I'm worried about,' Harry said. 'She's already started making up stuff. She said she needed to get something from her room, hours ago, and never returned! What if he's taken her? What if Voldemort tries to turn her to his side?'

Dumbledore shrugged.

Ron, with his familiar surly overprotective look, stood up from the table. 'I'm gonna go find her.'

'Good idea,' Harry said. 'I'll go with you.'

Dumbledore smiled from Ron to Harry, and nodded his head once. 'I'll escort Miss Weasley to the safety of her room,' he said. 'If you both really feel that Miss Granger needs your assistance, then by all means help her. But I warn you, do not aggravate Voldemort. Remember that there have already been two murders without the use of wand magic.'

'Yeah, yeah,' said Ron. 'Please take care of my sister, Headmaster,' he added respectfully.

Ginny sat back in her seat, watching Harry and Ron run off to save the day, as usual. They always left her behind to be 'protected'. Sometimes it infuriated her, and right now the old resentment reared its ugly head. She forced a yawn. 'Headmaster,' she said, 'I'm tired. Do you mind if I walk back to my room now?'

'Not at all,' Dumbledore said. 'I'll walk you safely there.'

She nodded assent, and they walked together all the way up to Ginny's door. 'Thank you,' she said, shaking Dumbledore's hand. 'Good night.'

'You'll be fine, then?' Dumbledore peered at her.

'Oh, yes,' Ginny replied. 'I'll put a chair behind my door so that no one can get in. No worries.'

'Very well,' said Dumbledore. 'Good night.'

When Ginny shut the door, she took a quick glance around her room to be sure she was alone, counted to sixty to make sure Dumbledore would be out of sight, then slipped back out the door. The hall was deserted and dark, and she walked back in the direction of the stairs, quiet as a cat. She did not know what she was looking for, exactly, but in her mind was the vague notion of following Ron and Harry, or perhaps coming upon Draco, wherever _he_ was.

She must have taken a wrong turn upstairs, however, and when she came around the corner expecting to find the main staircase, she found a long dark hallway instead. Ginny gulped. Did Malfoy Manor change itself, like Hogwarts? It was not a pleasant thought. She walked along the unexpected corridor with caution. A pedestal in a niche off to the side caught her eye, and she stopped to inspect it. Inside a glass case was a crystal ball, on a gold stand inscribed with the words '_Livia Malfoy, 1329-1450_'. Another Malfoy family heirloom. She leaned closer, and thought she saw faces inside the crystal: a person with dark hair and a hooked nose that looked a lot like Professor Snape, and then it morphed into what could have been a house-elf, and then – Ginny's head snapped up and she ducked further into the niche, pressing herself close to the wall. She heard footsteps, she was sure of it.

Breathing through her mouth in silent fear, Ginny wished she could meld into the wall, and hoped that the small niche would be enough to disguise her from someone passing by. The footsteps drew closer. Ginny winced, wishing for the use of her wand, for anything to defend herself…perhaps she could break the glass case and throw the crystal ball at the murderer. That might work.

Then, a figure cloaked in black walked straight past her, not pausing to glance into her hiding place. It was Professor Snape, walking alone. Ginny watched him pass by, gave it thirty seconds, then sighed in relief. She wondered what he was up to, stalking the corridors at night. _He's probably so used to it from Hogwarts, he can't help himself_, Ginny thought. Snape was a notorious insomniac, and anyone out of bed past curfew was likely to run into him unless they had an invisibility cloak like Harry.

At that thought, Ginny wondered if Harry had packed the infamous item, and if it would even work in a magical storm. Now there was something: what if the murderer got hold of an invisibility cloak? Ginny shivered. Perhaps now was the time to go back to her room.

Peeking out of her niche to see the coast clear, Ginny hurried back along the way she'd come, cursing her own foolishness. The best thing to do was wait this thing out. If Hermione was going to follow Lord Voldemort, so be it. If Draco was going to be a prat, so be it. As for Ron and Harry…they were just acting as they always had. It was about time for Ginny Weasley to get over it. In her light gait, she scampered back along the hallway, remembering to turn, and then she found the grand staircase she had been seeking before.

Ginny paused at the top of the stairs, overlooking the great entrance hall below. It was silent as a tomb in its white marble glory, the crystal chandelier hanging like a skeleton from the ceiling. Lightning bolts from outside flashed upon the polished floor, reflecting off it like a mirror. Once again, Ginny was reminded how grand Malfoy Manor was in comparison to her own humble home.

Then, she bit back a shriek of surprise. Lord Voldemort himself entered her line of sight from above, followed by a slight figure Ginny recognised as Hermione. The pair swept through the hall and turned to ascend the stairs, and Ginny slunk back into the shadows, watching them climb. Hermione trailed Voldemort as though by habit, and glanced up at him with the kind of eyes she normally reserved for books, or eloquent teachers.

_Oh dear,_ thought Ginny. _Hermione's gone bad_.

When Voldemort and Hermione reached the top, Ginny held her breath again so as not be detected, but Voldemort's white, snake-like visage turned in her direction. His scarlet gaze met hers directly, and Voldemort's eyes continued to burn into her as he walked past, piercing the shadows and holding Ginny steady against the wall. She was petrified in fear. Hermione did not notice where Voldemort looked, and kept her head bowed.

_Merlin's beard, Merlin's beard, oh his long white beard,_ Ginny's mind rambled. She felt sick to her stomach. _Stay away from me, Tom stay away stay away Tom…_ After an eternity, Voldemort passed and his glance lifted from her. The pair turned in the direction where Snape had gone, and Ginny wondered at this for a moment before running back toward her room, all attempt at stealth forgotten. _This was a stupid idea,_ Ginny thought. _Next, I'll probably run into Ron, and he'll tell Mum I defied orders, and she'll ground me until I'm thirty_. She ran through the shadowy halls, blind and hurried, hoping and wishing and praying that she might just get back to her room in safety. It was not Ginny's lucky night.

She felt strong arms fasten about her waist, pulling her violently into an embrace, forcing her against the wall. A hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her cry for help. Ginny choked back a sob of terror. Was she next? Was she to be murdered? _No!_ her mind screamed. She brought her knee up into the groin of her attacker, and the person doubled over with a grunt of pain. Definitely a man, then.

Ginny twisted away and tried to make a run for it, but the other was too fast for her. She was pinned again, her arms above her head. 'Who's there?' she finally blurted. 'Who are you?'

* * *

For the first time since Lucius's murder, tears streamed freely down Narcissa's cheeks. She was back in her room, buffing her nails with ferocity and trying to ignore the anguish that knocked at her heart. Snape had left in a huff, muttering about women and their moods, but Narcissa knew it was something more than that. 

The poisoning incident had frightened her deeply, and brought home the real danger she was in. A small part of it was her fault, she knew; she should never have consumed a single goblet of her favourite juice laid out for her like that, under these circumstances. But Narcissa also blamed Severus. He failed to protect her, watch out for her, and the more she thought about it the more she doubted the wisdom of letting Severus into her life and home.

All day she mulled it over, and on the way out of dinner, she said as much to Severus. 'Someone tried to kill me,' she had said. 'I don't know why, but all I want is for this to go away!'

'It can't go away,' Severus replied. 'Your husband, being the man he was, brought danger into this house.'

'And what about you, Severus? What about your position? Is it any less dangerous? You're a spy for Merlin only knows who, and you have the full mistrust of the Dark Lord and Dumbledore alike!'

Snape glowered at her. 'The Dark Lord trusts me. Dumbledore trusts me.'

'And one of them shouldn't! Which side will you betray, Severus? Which side will come after you? I will not put my family in that position again.'

'Fine,' Snape said. 'Don't. I'll walk you back up to your room, and leave you there forever.'

That was when the tears had started as a lump in her throat, moving up behind her eyes, and now flowed as a river of salt down her smooth skin. It was for the best, she conceded. The homicide of Lucius had addled her good sense, thrown her into the arms of her son's Potions professor. No more, she thought. No more. It had been a temporary insanity, and now Narcissa needed to be strong and defend the only things she had left: her home, her son, her position.

With a glance at her clock, she saw that the time approached nine in the evening. Perhaps she should sleep, and with luck the magical storm would be over by the morning. She went as far as to put on her pink negligee, and turned down the covers, but when faced with her empty bed, Narcissa started to cry again.

'Oh, bugger this,' she said aloud. Then she giggled tearfully at her own indignity. She grabbed her silk robe and tossed it on, tying it closed with a flourish. The hall outside her room was dark, but that did not bother Narcissa. She was only going a few steps, to Lucius's bedroom. There, she knew, was the entrance to the hidden passageway that would lead her to the dungeons. A plot formed in her mind; it was time for Narcissa Malfoy to take matters into her own hands. No one was ever there for her, so she would be there for herself.

The sleeping chamber of her late husband was shadowed and cold (_just like it was when he was alive,_ Narcissa thought) and Narcissa stole across it, her slippers clacking on the polished wood floor. She pulled aside a tapestry on the wall and pressed a stone with her hand; the wall swung open obediently. Only for a moment did she doubt the wisdom of sneaking around in the night. The urgency of her plan was greater, and she pushed fear aside.

Down the secret passage she went, and Narcissa tried to remember how long it was. There were listening holes along the way, she knew; one at the green guest bedroom, one behind the library, and one that looked into the main hallway. This was the longest, most twisted secret passage in the Manor, and as Narcissa scurried along she counted her paces in her mind, trying to gauge how far she had come. 'Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three,' her lips moved… 'Forty-seven, forty-eight…' At just about the right spot, she came upon the first peephole, into the green room. _Who was in this room?_ Narcissa could not remember. Curious, she put her eye up to the hole.

No one was visible inside, but Narcissa saw the edge of a brown taffeta dress flung upon a chair. Ginny Weasley, then. Narcissa had been pleasantly surprised by Ginny; the girl had sparkle, and took to elegant living quite well, considering her family's circumstances. But where was Ginny, if not in her room? With a shrug, Narcissa kept moving along the passage. The library too was empty, and Narcissa did not even bother to look through the hole to the main hallway.

'Oh!' she gasped. There was a stair-step in the darkness. She had almost forgotten. 'No good to trip and fall,' she whispered. 'No one would ever find me.' With an exhale of tension, Narcissa felt her way along the narrow, steep staircase that led her down to the dungeons. After several more twists and turns, Narcissa was in familiar territory, and opened the door to the room she had sought that morning: the potions stores.

She knew exactly what she was looking for. She pulled open a cabinet and yanked bottle after bottle off the shelves, reaching into the back, and her fingers clasped around a small, dusty vial. She brought it out, blowing away the layer of filth, and she smiled. _Veritaserum_. Narcissa would find out who was telling the truth, and who was lying. Was her cactus juice poisoned? Were the house-elves following someone else's orders? Where did loyalties lie on this crazy weekend?

Pocketing the vial, Narcissa fled the dungeon storeroom. She would start with Severus Snape.

* * *

Ginny stopped struggling for a moment, not wanting to waste her energy. She might have to run or fight, and she would need to act fast. 'Who _are_ you?' she repeated. 

The man's breath was hot on her ear. 'Oh,' he said. 'It's you.'

'Draco?'

Draco Malfoy sighed and let go of her pinned hands. 'Sorry.'

'You scared me half to death!' Ginny cried. 'What's wrong with you?'

'I thought you might be the murderer,' he said.

'Lame excuse. I would think you would run and hide from the murderer, not attack directly.'

Draco brought out a portable witch-light torch, and the golden glow hung between their faces, casting the space around them into shadow. 'Normally, I would run,' he admitted. 'But there's more to it than my own safety, Weasley. There's a murderer who is knocking off my family, one by one. Sometimes even a Slytherin knows the time to make a stand.'

'Oh, that's rich,' Ginny scoffed. 'You make a stand by accosting a much weaker, very innocent girl.'

'Innocent?' Draco smirked. 'What were you doing wandering the corridors alone, anyway? And where's Potter? He's supposed to be looking after you.'

'He and Ron went off to find Hermione,' Ginny said, feeling truculent. 'I couldn't sleep; I'm not tired. And I'm not helpless.'

'I know you're not,' Draco said. 'Your knee to a very sensitive area of mine just proved that!'

'Oh, yeah. Sorry. But you brought it on yourself, you know.'

Draco let out a huff of air. 'I did expect you to have better sense than to go rambling through the house alone.'

'I saw Hermione and V-vol-You-Know-Who,' she said.

'Really?'

'He saw me, but didn't do anything,' Ginny let her weight sag against the wall, the encounter with Voldemort catching up with her. 'And Hermione was sure following You-Know-Who closely. I rather think she's contemplating a switch.'

'Granger? Become a Death Eater? You can't be serious.' Draco grabbed her hand and pulled her along. 'Here, Ginny, let's get out of the corridor. I prefer to have four solid walls surrounding me at the moment.'

Ginny did not argue, and tried to ignore the warm pressure of his hand clasping hers. Even the small contact made her feel flushed, like she could collapse into his arms and let him – _No, no, no_, she stopped her mind from going any further. It would do no good. Draco Malfoy would never associate with a Weasley. After this weekend, he would likely pretend he did not know her.

Then, Draco's arms were around her waist and he yanked her into a recessed doorframe, their bodies pressed together. For a wild moment, Ginny thought he had succumbed to passion and was about to kiss her, but the hope was dashed as he whispered in her ear.

'Shhh,' he said. 'There's someone coming.'

She nodded. They were unmoving in their peculiar embrace, and sure enough Ginny heard footsteps. _What is this,_ she thought, _'wander the hallways' hour? I've met more people in this bloody upstairs corridor than I do walking down Diagon Alley at mid-day._ Over Draco's shoulder she saw Headmaster Dumbledore walk by at a rapid pace, spry for such an old man. He did not see them.

After a moment to let Dumbledore out of earshot, Ginny giggled. 'You keep doing this,' she said.

'Doing what?' Draco grumbled, moving away from her slightly.

'Grabbing me and pushing me against walls,' Ginny said. 'If I didn't know better, I'd say it was deliberate.'

In the darkness, Ginny could see a flash of Draco's grey eyes as he looked down at her. 'It's not deliberate,' he whispered. He leaned closer.

'Oh,' she said. She tilted her head up at him.

'Ginny,' he said, and his hands tightened about her waist.

When his lips came down to meet hers, Ginny's eyes flew open in happy wonder, then she relaxed against him. Draco's lips were velvet warm, and with a searing jolt to her core she felt his tongue tease against her own, entering her mouth, exploring. Ginny wrapped her hands around his head, drawing him deeper in. All thought of murder and danger fled from Ginny's mind. The only thing that mattered was Draco's hot mouth, and his hands moving around her waist, reaching around to grab her from behind and pull her tighter against him.

She had never been kissed like this before, not by Michael or Dean or Harry. All of those experiences seemed amateur next to Draco's manipulations. She would have imagined Draco to be cold, lifeless, clammy, but he wasn't; no, he was hot like a flame, scalding her with his touch. When they broke apart to catch their breath, even the tiny interruption was too long for the ache that had developed.

'Let's go back to my room,' Draco's ragged voice whispered in her ear.

She nodded, and let him pull her away.

* * *

In the next chapter: 

_Halfway down the right-hand corridor at the top of the stairs, near a pedestal with a crystal ball, Ron stopped. 'Do you smell that?' Ron said._

'_What?' Harry said. He sniffed the air. It smelled like…burning. 'Uh oh,' he said. _

'_Smoke,' said Ron._

'_Where there's smoke,' Harry said._

'_There's fire,' Ron finished. 'C'mon!'_


	13. Snape Must Die

**Author's Notes:** You know the drill: big thanks to the reviewers! _Possum132, Pussin Boots, The Enchanted Teakettle, Kougaismyhomeboy, foggygoggles, ParadoxOfInfinity, hannah, supafly09, Maeve Morgan, _and _Kadie_. In fact, thank to all of you who are reading this story!

You'll recognise a line from William Golding's Lord of the Flies in here.

So, at this point: Voldemort and Hermione are after Snape; Narcissa is after Snape; Harry and Ron are after Hermione; Dumbledore is after Harry and Ron; Ginny and Draco are making out in Draco's room, and Pansy? Who knows!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Snape Must Die**

Voldemort's glee was on the verge of boiling over. He had a new follower! A Death Eater to be initiated. What was more, said initiate was one of Potter's Golden Trio. Hermione Granger was Voldemort's now, body and soul. _Mwahahahaha_, his malicious mind laughed. Sometimes he loved being evil, and this was one of those moments. Now he had only to test Granger's resolve, see how far she would go for him. The first pressing issue that sprung to mind was Severus Snape: Voldemort was sick of him. The man had lived on the edge of loyalty for too long. _Besides,_ Voldemort thought, _if Lucius and Bellatrix can die in the same week-end, why not Snape?_

It neared midnight. After the conservatory, where Hermione had succumbed to the forces of the Dark (Voldemort felt another little squirm of delight), they had gone in search of Snape. That was two and a half hours ago. Probably one of the house-elves had tipped off Snape that the Dark Lord was looking for him. House-elves. Voldemort despised the little creatures. They were untrustworthy as a general rule, and these Malfoy house-elves were something else. Tricked into murdering Bellatrix! What gross incompetence could have allowed it? More and more, Voldemort believed Hermione had hit the nail on the head with that theory. There was no other explanation for how his number-one Death Eater had gone so quietly…was there?

Beside him, he could feel Hermione's sharp, incisive mind whirring in circles between power and fear and horror and happiness. It was a common combination for new followers of Voldemort. He tried to ease her decision. 'What is it that _you_ hate about Snape?' he asked in a conversational tone.

It turned out to be a common subject between them. 'I hate that sneering voice,' Hermione said. 'He's so rude.'

'I hate his nose,' Voldemort contributed. 'It's too large.' As he said it, the thought crossed his mind that he, Voldemort, lacked a nose entirely. Ah, well. Better no nose than a great hooked one, like Snape's.

'I hate the way Snape is unfair,' Hermione said. 'He's so biased, and doesn't even try to hide it.'

'I hate how he basks under the protection of Albus Dumbledore.'

'I hate his greasy hair.'

'I hate how he copied my gesture of swirling his black robes around in a menacing fashion.'

'I hate his disdain for the art of Transfiguration.'

'I hate how he lies,' Voldemort hissed. 'He's always telling _falsehoods_.'

'I hate Snape!' Hermione chanted.

'Kill the Snape, cut his throat, bash him in!' Voldemort and Hermione chanted together. They stalked along the upper corridor, the shadows moving out of the way for them. Nothing could stop them now, nothing, not even – Voldemort halted. Dumbledore was straight ahead; they had caught up with the old man's midnight wanderings. With a sigh, and a hand on Hermione's shoulder, Voldemort pulled her back from her rapid pace.

'Wait here,' he said.

'What is it?' she whispered.

'That great filthy Muggle-lover, Dumbledore,' he hissed.

A shadow passed across Hermione's face, and at first he took it for common hatred of Dumbledore…but then he remembered that _she_ was a Muggle-born. Oops. He would need her to cut all ties to the Muggle world if she was going to be a Death Eater. Voldemort decided to make sure her parents, the elder Grangers, were killed. It would break Hermione, throw her into the only stable thing in her path: Him. Voldemort. The thought cheered him, and he hung back like a spider, waiting for Dumbledore to hurry along.

'My Lord?' Hermione said.

He looked at her, waiting to see the hurt of his insult against her birth, and the defense of her last idol, the Headmaster of her school.

'I think Snape is the only one who could have brewed the box jellyfish poison in Malfoy's tea,' she said.

Voldemort blinked in surprise. What a delight! When Hermione Granger was insulted, she retreated into intellectualism; her powerful mind was her defense. He filed away the knowledge of her character, unconsciously approving of it. 'The only one?' he said.

'Well, aside from you, sir,' she said.

Voldemort enjoyed compliments, in spite of himself. Nothing like feeling a little superior on a rainy day… 'Yes,' he said. 'Snape probably murdered Malfoy. He put the poison in the tea, and either stabbed or shot Lucius… but he could not have done both. There must have been an accomplice.'

'Narcissa,' Hermione said. 'They're an item. Ginny said that she saw Snape and Narcissa kissing in the study last night, after the murder.'

'Aha!' Voldemort said. 'I thought there was something. That confirms it.' His red eyes twinkled in the shadowy hallway. 'It's the oldest story in the world. A woman and her lover, conspiring to kill off the hapless husband. And the simplest explanation, Hermione, is usually the correct one.'

Her eyes widened at the use of her first name, and she looked down at her toes.

'But what of Bellatrix?' Voldemort murmured. 'Where does she fit in? Did she discover the plot?'

'I've been thinking about that, too, my Lord,' Hermione said. She paused, as though debating whether to continue.

After several moments of impatient silence, Voldemort reached out a hand and jerked her chin up to face him. He did not take kindly to people withholding information. 'Yesss?'

'My Lord, please don't take this the wrong way, but,' she bit her lip, 'is it possible that Bellatrix's death was not a murder?'

He squinted at her, peering into her mind. Surely, the little chit was not suggesting –

'Perhaps,' said Hermione, 'it was a suicide.'

* * *

A roll of thunder pounded through Draco's ears, matching the pace of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears. It was dark in his bedroom, and the wild colour of Ginny's hair faded to the soft tones of grey that characterised night-vision; only an occasional turn of her head, a glint of lightning through the curtains, revealed the fiery brilliant mane that tumbled down her shoulders. 

They were on Draco's bed. Ginny straddled him, her legs clasping their bodies tightly together. Draco's hands wandered of their own accord, around her waist and then to cup her firm breasts through her silken shirt. Such a marvelous figure she had, toned muscles and womanly curves, a tight little rear that begged to be held. Her tongue was soft sugar in his mouth, and she moved tantalisingly against him, her small hands flashing through space to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it off with expertise.

Draco decided that she had worn her top for long enough, and his hands rolled up the silky material of her shirt, going beneath it to feel her smooth white skin. Ginny raised her arms in obedience, and she lost the shirt. Then, Draco watched in shocked provocation as she reached around, bold-as-can-be, and unclasped her bra. She tossed it over the side of the bed and leaned down against Draco, skin on skin.

_Bliss,_ he thought. _Pure bliss_. The blood rushed down, pooling in heat. He had never been this excited in his life, not with Pansy or any of the Slytherin girls. Everything fled his mind: the murders, the danger, the worry about his mother and his house and the Dark Lord. He never wanted this to end, this black hot sweetness with Ginny. All he wanted was to have Ginny in his bed, forever and ever.

'Draco,' she whispered against the skin of his throat, sending reverberations down his spine. 'Oh, Draco.'

'Ginny,' he gasped in return. He pulled her tight against him, then they rolled together so that Draco was on top, pinning her down and kissing her neck and moving his hands down, down, down…

She was the forbidden fruit, the youngest Weasley, Potter's girl, the red-haired lioness of Gryffindor, the most popular bird in school. It made her that much more gratifying to Draco, that this strong young thing would break herself for him. If he could win her, she might transfer that fierce loyalty to him…he kissed her harder, pouring out his desperation. She was boiling honey beneath him, soft and wet, with her gasping breaths drawing out the air between them.

In the end, they did not go all the way. It was by mutual agreement; it was too soon, too dangerous. Draco did not want to contemplate the reasons behind it, but he wanted to respect Ginny. He wanted her to be more than a conquest. He knew he could have taken her, and she was willing, but what then? No, Draco wanted Ginny to renounce herself to him, and it would take more than a one-night stand for that to happen. Thus with admirable self-control, they pulled back from the brink, holding each other in the sticky darkness.

They slept. As in the night previous, Draco pulled Ginny to him, but this time with permission. He dreamed of a field of grazing horses, whinnying and running about, free and fast.

It was the pounding on the door that penetrated Draco's fuzzy head, tearing him from the warm embrace that was Ginny. _How rude_. But he had best answer the door; a quick glance at the clock told him it was three in the morning on Sunday. _Sunday_, he thought. _Has it been nearly two days already?_ This weekend felt like a time warp, in which nothing existed outside of it. More had happened in the past thirty-six hours than in the rest of Draco's life put together, he felt.

The insistent knocking continued, and Ginny stirred next to him. 'What's that noise?' she mumbled.

'Someone's at the door,' Draco said. 'Wait here.' As he slipped out of bed, the cold night air hit his almost-naked body, nipping against his skin like cold knives. It served to wake him up fully. It was then he remembered the murderer on the loose, a murderer who kept killing off the Malfoy family. Draco first went for his wand, then thought better of it (_this damned storm_, he thought) and grabbed a large silver candlestick instead. He crept up to the door and pressed his nose against the doorjamb. 'Who is it?' he said.

'Draco!' It was his mother. 'Open up, please!'

Draco hesitated. What if she was under duress? What if the murderer had her, was using her as bait to get to him? What if, as soon as he opened the door, he would be killed? He growled. It was his mother, for the sake of Merlin! He threw open his bedroom door.

Narcissa stood in the hallway, her eyes wide and frightened. 'I had to make sure you were all right,' she said, falling forward to embrace her son. 'I had to check.'

'I'm fine, Mum,' Draco said, setting aside the candlestick. He patted his mother's shoulder awkwardly. He noticed that she smelled of smoke. 'What's going on?'

Narcissa pushed past him and entered his room. Draco opened his mouth in protest; the swooping sensation hit him that he was practically naked, and Ginny Weasley was in his bed. _Oh, Gods…_ For all that he was close to Narcissa, there were some things that a man never told his mother. And the subject of Ginny Weasley was a little too raw to try to explain. Perhaps, in the darkness, Narcissa would not notice the human-shaped lump beneath his covers.

'Draco?' Ginny's voice came through the shadows, and he cringed.

'Who's that?' Narcissa asked. 'Is that Pansy?'

_Oh, no_, Draco thought again. The last thing he wanted was for Ginny to think that the norm for him was to have Pansy stay the night. In fact, Pansy had never slept with Draco in his bed at home. They had been in broom closets at Hogwarts, sure, and the Slytherin boys' dormitory, and Pansy's room at the Parkinsons' house…but his bedroom was his sanctum. 'Mother, can't we go out to the hallway?' he said in desperation.

'Mrs. Malfoy?' Ginny inquired.

'Ginny _Weasley?_'

'Uhhh…' Draco said.

Narcissa peered through the darkness, inching closer to Draco's bed and the incriminating girl resting there. 'What's going on here?' she asked.

'Nothing,' Draco babbled. 'It's just that we didn't think it was safe for Ginny to be alone, and I don't have a sofa for her to sleep on, and there's a murderer on the loose, and –'

'A murderer,' Narcissa said, and her voice betrayed something that Draco could not identify. 'That's why I had to check on you, darling. Because, you see…' she sniffled, and with a shock Draco realised she was crying.

'Mum?'

'Severus,' Narcissa said. 'Severus Snape has been killed.'

* * *

Harry and Ron settled into their familiar night-stalking routine. It was not the corridors of Hogwarts, but it felt the same: running around under the noses of authority figures, solving mysteries, pulling friends out of danger. Now, Harry's mind was only on Hermione: he had to save her from the clutches of Voldemort! It had gone on long enough. He did not know what Dumbledore was _thinking_, letting Hermione go off with that evil creature. 

Next to him, Ron glowered in angry pursuit, not saying much. They had no rhyme or reason to their search; they had started at Hermione's room, which had been empty, and now they walked through the first floor of the mansion, peering into room after room. Their source of light was a portable witch-light; Ron muttered something about Dumbledore having given it to him. As for Dumbledore…

Harry shook his head. The old man had gone batty. The seriousness of this weekend's situation did not faze the Headmaster in the least, and Harry thought he was crazy for it. One too many lemon-drops.

'Do you even like lemon-drops?' Harry asked Ron.

'Huh?'

'You know. The sweets.'

'I, erm, I guess so,' Ron stammered. 'Why do you ask?'

Harry heard a crinkling noise, like plastic, coming from Ron's pocket. He gave his friend a funny look. 'I just think Dumbledore's gone round the bend, that's all.'

'Oh, right,' said Ron.

'Look!' Harry said, noticing a glint of metal on the floor. He bent down. It was a small pearl earring. 'Whose is this?'

'Hey! That's Hermione's!' Ron took the earring from Harry and stared at it, eyes agog. 'They must have come this way.'

'Let's go,' Harry said. They picked up the pace, and followed the hallway straight into the main entrance with the fantastic chandelier. 'Great,' he said. 'Now where did they go?'

'I think they went upstairs,' said Ron.

Harry's eyes darted up the stairs. 'How do you know?'

'I don't know, I just think they did,' said Ron. 'From here, you can only go to the dining room, the parlour, or the drawing room. Or, upstairs. If I were them, I'd have gone upstairs.'

'But we _started_ upstairs,' Harry said. 'At Hermione's room. She wasn't there.'

'Well, we've gotta go somewhere!' Ron said. 'Let's just have a peek into those other rooms, then go upstairs.'

'Fine,' said Harry.

Ron was right; the dining room was empty, and the drawing room only contained Lucius Malfoy's cold corpse, and the parlour held Bellatrix Lestrange, hanging from the light in the centre of the room. Harry grimaced at the outline of it, though he was happy to see her dead. _Take that, you evil hag_, he thought with some malicious glee. Revenge for Sirius. They climbed the stairs next, hot on the trail.

Halfway down the right-hand corridor at the top of the stairs, near a pedestal with a crystal ball, Ron stopped. 'Do you smell that?' Ron said.

'What?' Harry said. He sniffed the air. It smelled like…burning. 'Uh oh,' he said.

'Smoke,' said Ron.

'Where there's smoke,' Harry said.

'There's fire,' Ron finished. 'C'mon!'

They took off down the hall, footsteps pounding past closed doors. Harry got disorientated with the turns they took. It was impossible to keep track of yourself in Malfoy Manor, and Harry was quite convinced that the house had a mind of its own. The smell of smoke grew thicker as they ran, however, so they must be on their way to somewhere.

Then, one half-turn of a corridor later, Harry saw it: thick black smoke pouring out from beneath a heavy wooden door. It looked like one of the bedrooms. He rushed forward and grabbed the door handle, yanking it. It did not budge. 'Help me!' he shouted to Ron. Together the two boys slammed into the door, knocking it clean off its hinges. The smoke surged outward in dark clouds, searing Harry's lungs and making him cough.

'Hello?' Ron yelled, sooty tears streaming down his cheeks in reaction to the smoke. 'Is anyone in here?'

'Hermione?' Harry said.

With the door open, the smoke cleared fast, and left Harry and Ron standing in the middle of an empty room, looking at a pile of burning parchment in the middle of a large black cauldron. 'What's this?' Harry said, puzzled. The parchment had gone up in stifling clouds, but the inner fire was more of a damp smoldering.

Ron reached down, trying to get one of the undamaged pieces. 'Ouch!' he said, drawing his hand back. He blew into the cauldron, and ashy pieces of parchment flew up into his face, making him cough.

'Here,' said Harry. He took off his left shoe and used it to poke around the glowing orange pieces. There looked to be nothing salvageable, except… With care, Harry reached down and plucked out a flat yellow piece of parchment with browned edges. It was blank aside from seven words. Harry read aloud. '_The Last Will and Testament of Lucius M—_ it stops there,' he said.

Ron's jaw dropped. 'Someone's burned Malfoy's will!'

'But why, I wonder!' Harry said. 'There must have been something about it that someone didn't like.'

'I bet it was _Draco_ Malfoy that did it,' Ron muttered. 'His dad probably disowned him or something, and he wanted to destroy the evidence.'

'Yeah,' Harry mused. 'I'm not sure, but I think that without a will, the Malfoy estate would go to the next of kin. Narcissa.'

'So maybe she burned it,' Ron said.

'Dunno,' said Harry. He patted the title parchment to put out the embers, and folded it with caution, placing it in his pocket. 'I think we'd better find Dumbledore.'

Ron got a strange look on his face, but then nodded agreement.

As they walked through the upstairs of Malfoy Manor at a slower pace, Harry wondered what could have been in Malfoy's will that was so damaging. Surely Lucius Malfoy would have bequeathed his estate to his wife, or his son? Harry was not sure how wizarding law worked in terms of inheritance; his only experience with it had been his parents' savings at Gringotts Bank, and the ownership of 12 Grimmauld Place after Sirius died. But there had been an explicit will in that case.

The pursuit of Hermione temporarily put aside, Ron and Harry focused on finding the Headmaster. Ron led the way, and Harry could not put aside the peculiar impression that Ron knew where Dumbledore was at all times. He shot a look at his best mate, as though he did not know him at all. Sure enough, Ron gestured toward a blank wooden door. 'Let's try in there,' he said.

Dumbledore stood before a snooker table, ready to make the winning shot against himself. The games room at Malfoy Manor was well-appointed, with magical fairy-darts, Pisky-bashing tables, snooker, table tennis, and some other games that Harry did not recognise. 'Headmaster, sir!' he said.

'Oh, hello Harry,' Dumbledore said. 'Care for a game of snooker? I enjoy practising, of course, but it's always more fun to play against someone else.'

'No thanks,' Harry said. 'Sorry, sir, but something's come up.' He pulled the parchment from his pocket and presented it to Dumbledore. 'While Ron and I were looking for Hermione, we came across a room with a cauldron inside. Someone burned Lucius Malfoy's will.'

'Really!' Dumbledore's eyes glinted with interest. 'Let me see.' He glanced over the paper scrap, reading the words. 'Huh,' he said.

'I think it was Narcissa or Draco,' Ron contributed.

'Do you?' Dumbledore said. 'Was there anyone else in the room when you arrived?'

'Well, no, sir, but it only makes sense,' Ron said.

'Indeed,' Dumbledore murmured. He looked up at Harry. 'This will contained vital evidence: it told who stood the most to gain by murdering Lucius Malfoy. With the will burned, that information is lost. But it could not have been burnt by the murderer, because that would defeat the purpose.'

Harry tried to follow the Headmaster's thoughts. 'So, whoever inherited the Manor could have murdered Malfoy in order to get the estate and the money. But if the will is gone, so is their claim to it?'

'Exactly!' Dumbledore said. 'The will must have been burnt by someone who did _not_ want its terms to be followed. As Ron suggested, that points to Narcissa or Draco as the arsonist, since in the absence of a will, they inherit the Manor under wizarding descendant's law. However,' he said, 'there is only one way to find out for certain what the will said.'

'How's that, sir?' Ron asked.

'Professor Snape,' said Dumbledore. 'He was the signatory on Lucius Malfoy's will.'

Harry stared. 'Right,' he said. 'I guess we better go find Snape, then.'

Dumbledore led the way out of the games room with a regretful look back at the snooker table.

It was not difficult to find Snape, in the end. The professor's guest room was just down the hall, and Dumbledore gestured in that direction, twirling his beard with an idle thumb and humming some indefinable tune.

Snape's quarters were as opulent as the rest of the house. Priceless antiques, exquisite brocade upholstery, a huge medieval tapestry on the wall. Harry did not notice any of this. Instead, his gaze landed on the sprawled-out form in front of the fireplace, black-clad limbs splayed at unnatural angles, dark eyes half open and still.

Professor Snape was dead.

Next to Harry, Ron made a gurgling sound of incredulity. Dumbledore sprang forward and knelt on one knee next to the Potions professor, placing a hand on the forehead, leaning his head down to listen for a pulse. Dumbledore's beard shook back and forth.

'Is he --?' Harry said.

'I'm afraid so,' Dumbledore replied, pushing himself up to a standing position. 'Professor Snape appears to be dead.'

Harry could not believe it. All those years of bitter contention, mistrust, and hatred were over. Snape was dead. He would never look down his hooked nose at Harry again, would never take points from Gryffindor with that particular air of spite. Harry looked at Snape's hand, curled in limp repose. It was white and almost delicate, at odds with the man himself.

'Well,' said Ron, shrugging his shoulders. 'You knew that greasy git was never going to survive this story.'

Harry nodded. The double life of Severus Snape had finally caught up with him. As he stared at the body of the Potions Master, he noticed something strange. A little yellow lump rested on the floor near Snape's dead hand. How peculiar. Harry bent down, and when he picked up the thing and brought it close to his vision for inspection.

It was a lemon-drop.

* * *

In the next chapter: 

'_I think she needs to sleep,' Voldemort said, undoubtedly trying to win brownie points by looking after her well-being. _

'_Hermione, why don't you get some rest,' Harry said, not to be outdone. _

'_Have sweet dreams, Hermione,' Ron added, giving her a significant glance, and Hermione could tell he was emphasising himself as a subject of sweet dreams._


	14. We've Got to Get Organized

**Author's Notes:** As always, my gratitude to the reviewers: _Possum132, Pussin Boots, The Enchanted Teakettle, pinkstargummii, GoodQueenA, ParadoxOfInfinity, Maeve Morgan, The Future Mrs. Grint, amy-the-rat, Loz, merchanfan, KrazieChikadee, _and _hathorX_! You all are wonderful.

Sorry for the minor delay in getting this chapter up. We've been without power in my town, so no internet! This chapter serves as a little bit of a review of the mystery items so far, via Voldemort and Hermione, plus some backstory from Narcissa re: her activities. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter 14**

**We've Got to Get Organised **

'Oh, look,' Hermione said. 'Snape is dead.'

'Hmm,' Voldemort said. 'It certainly appears that way.'

Hermione approached the prone body of her Potions professor. Somewhere over the course of the weekend, she had lost her hesitancy about examining dead bodies. Her fingers explored along Snape's cooling neck, feeling for a pulse. There was none. 'No pulse,' she reported to Voldemort.

'Mmm,' he said. When she turned to face him he smiled, thin lips over white teeth. It made him look less human, somehow.

Not that Hermione minded.

'What's this?' she said to herself, kneeling down once more. Her fingers brushed the small round hard thing. 'My Lord?' She picked it up and showed it to Voldemort.

Voldemort's eyes flared up like crimson burners. 'It looks like a lemon-drop,' he said. 'Snape assured me he'd kicked that habit.'

Hermione met Voldemort's gaze as she brought the tiny candy to her mouth and darted her tongue out to taste it. A sweet, tangy citrus flavour assaulted the tastebuds at the end of her tongue. She nodded. 'It's a lemon-drop.' She put it back where she had found it, on the floor next to Snape's hand.

'Perhaps it's evidence,' Voldemort said. 'Perhaps old Dumbles isn't as snow-white as everyone seems to think.'

'Ohh,' Hermione said. 'Do you really think he'd kill a fellow professor?' The idea of Hogwarts teachers engaging in such nefarious actions was disturbing to her. Hermione naturally gravitated toward authority, and found it difficult to wrap her mind around the fact that teachers were human, too.

'Yes,' Voldemort said.

Despite the distressing image of Dumbledore murdering Snape in cold blood, Hermione was glad that Voldemort was talking again. Ever since her suggestion that Bellatrix had committed suicide, the Dark Lord had been cold and brooding. The silence put Hermione's nerves on edge; she had gotten used to his smooth, compelling voice accompanying her thoughts.

House-elves, poisonings, hanging by rope…it was getting to be a lot to keep track of, even for Hermione's categorical brain. She sighed, and sat back on her heels. 'My Lord?'

'If you have something to say, then say it, girl!' The Dark Lord looked annoyed. Hermione could not tell if he was vexed with her, or with the situation that stole the glory of Snape's murder away from him.

'Maybe,' she said, 'we ought to make a list!'

'A list?'

Lists were one of Hermione's favourite things. They were so useful, and she made them for every aspect of her life: books to read, homework to do, things to buy, ways to improve herself, pros and cons of kissing Ron Weasley…rhymes and reasons to put order into her day-to-day existence. Now, she thought, a list would be most beneficial. 'Yes, sir,' she said. 'With some parchment and a quill, we could get this thing organised. We'll make three categories, one for each of the deaths so far…or perhaps four, counting Mrs. Malfoy's near-death. We'll write down the probable causes of death, motives, opportunities...I could make a graph! And perhaps a matrix!' Hermione became more animated as she rattled off the ways in which a list could help them solve the mystery.

Voldemort regarded her with an unreadable expression. 'A list,' he repeated.

Hermione nodded eagerly.

'I think,' said Voldemort, 'that it was you Snape had in mind when he used to complain about his students, and how some did not know when good enough was enough.'

Hermione's eyes widened in embarrassment. _Great,_ she thought, _Snape even complained about me to the Dark Lord_. She set her shoulders in a motion of defiance; so what if she was organised? Better than some people, who let life float them along, out of control and aimless. She could not resist throwing a sour look at the dead professor on the floor. He never did appreciate her brilliance.

'Very well,' said Voldemort, rising with the air of someone indulging a child, 'let's find you some parchment, Miss Granger.'

Mollified, Hermione forced a smile and got up to follow him. Voldemort led the way to an upstairs reading room, with comfortable velveteen sofas and great stacks of books that rose to the ceiling. Her spirits lifted at the sight, but she felt disappointed to see they were mostly novels and books of poetry. Narcissa's touch. However, there was a small secretarial desk with a stack of fresh quills, pots of ink, and some fine parchment. It was this that Hermione gravitated towards, her fingers itching to write.

Voldemort sat in the centre of one of the plush sofas, leaning back as though it was a throne, and he gestured at the floor in front of him. 'Sit,' he said.

Hermione brought over the stack of papers and knelt at Voldemort's feet, spreading out her work materials. 'Now,' she said, nibbling the feathery end of the quill. 'From the beginning.' She wrote _Lucius Malfoy_ at the top left of the parchment. 'Location: drawing room. People present: everyone. Murder weapon: revolver _or_ knife. Attempted poison, and candlestick and rope in the room, as well. Motives: hmm.' Hermione stopped and looked up at Voldemort. 'Pretty much everyone had a motive, didn't they?'

'Yes,' said Voldemort. 'Lucius had many enemies.' He sounded entertained by the notion. 'Write down _infinite_ for motives.'

Hermione did. She knew that the key to Lucius's murder must lay elsewhere; with Bellatrix or Snape or some other roundabout clue. 'Right. Now, on to Bellatrix.' She wrote _Bellatrix Lestrange_ at the top next to Malfoy's name. She paused; it was a sensitive subject with the Dark Lord. She did not know what kind of relationship he had had with 'Bella', and his fury at her death had been palpable.

'Location: parlour,' Voldemort prompted. He leaned over, seeming interested in the chart in spite of himself.

'Right,' Hermione said again, writing it down. 'People present: unknown, correct? At least, you and I were in the library.'

'Draco Malfoy and the Weasley girl were there,' Voldemort said.

'Oh, yes, Ginny screamed, didn't she?' Hermione frowned. 'I don't think they killed her. They wouldn't have drawn attention to it if they had.'

'I suppose,' said Voldemort. 'Yes.' He scowled.

'Besides,' said Hermione, 'based on the evidence from the house-elves, no one necessarily had to be with Bellatrix to be the murderer. It could have been committed in absentia.'

'So write down _house-elves_, then,' said Voldemort.

'Murder weapon: hanging by rope. Circumstantial evidence for house-elf collaboration,' Hermione scribbled. 'Motives: well, quite a few for her, as well.'

'Dumbledore, Potter, the Weasley offspring…it was most likely one of them,' said Voldemort. His eyes glowed with wrath. 'It will not stand.'

Hermione did her best to look sympathetic. Bellatrix Lestrange had been an evil woman, and probably more insane than Voldemort himself, if that were possible. With a peculiar twist of satisfaction, Hermione thought of the murder as retribution for wrongs committed. Bellatrix had gotten exactly what was coming to her. However, it would do no good to voice these thoughts to Voldemort. 'Motives,' she said. 'Simple retribution, perhaps? She had enemies, as well.'

'Fine,' said Voldemort. 'Write down the name of everyone who was in the Manor, and cross off the names of it could _not_ have been. Process of elimination.'

Hermione nodded. 'Who did _not_ murder Bellatrix? You, of course, my Lord.'

Voldemort made a noise of agreement.

'And not Draco Malfoy or Ginny Weasley, I don't think,' said Hermione. 'There's not enough for them to gain by it. Malfoy's a coward, he wouldn't take the risk. And Ginny was with him.' She paused, and took the Voldemort's silence to mean agreement. 'And what about Harry? He would've been with Pansy Parkinson.'

'Oh, I suppose,' Voldemort said, sounding disappointed not to put the blame on Potter.

'That leaves us with Dumbledore, Ron, Snape, and Narcissa,' said Hermione. 'Cut down to four. Not too bad. Unless,' she took a deep breath, her voice becoming small, 'it _was_ suicide.'

'It's a possibility,' Voldemort said quietly. 'Bella was not always stable. But I refuse to believe she would have dared to commit suicide without consulting me first.'

Hermione gulped. Voldemort _would_ want control over everyone's life decisions like that. Once again, a wave of relief/fear passed over her. She wanted this man in charge of her, taking away the burden of decisions…but what if she ever wanted to follow her own way? Did she regret the fuzzy, warm darkness that her loyalty brought? _No,_ she thought. She refocused on her list. 'Now, what about Narcissa Malfoy and the poisoned cactus juice?'

'That has me baffled,' Voldemort said. 'The first guess would be Snape, but it could have been house-elves acting again. They can be induced to poison their masters, under the right persuasion.' A glint passed through his eyes, as though remembering something pleasant. 'Or, it could have been a pure unlucky accident. You know that Atacama cactus juice is a dangerous delicacy, and has been known to kill by incompetent handling and preparation.'

'Like the Japanese and their puffer-fish,' said Hermione.

'Put a question mark next to Narcissa for now, since we aren't sure if it was attempted murder or an accident.' He leaned over further, and his face was close to Hermione's head as he scanned the growing chart. 'And Snape…'

Hermione wrote _Severus Snape_ in its allotted space at the far right side of the parchment. 'Location: guest bedroom. People present: unknown, but lemon-drop found at the scene of the crime. Murder weapon: also unknown.'

'It looked like poison to me, but Snape is an expert at detecting foreign substances,' Voldemort said. 'He would never consume an untested beverage, especially not after the incident with Narcissa.'

'His face wasn't contorted or afraid,' said Hermione. 'That rules out a violent struggle, don't you think? It couldn't have been strangulation or something like that.'

'Hmm,' said Voldemort. 'He's too young to have died of natural causes.'

'Perhaps a slow-acting poison, from something he ate before? Although I don't know what,' Hermione said. 'The lemon-drop?' A horrible thought, that; Hermione herself had tasted the candy. _Stupid,_ she thought.

The fact did not escape Voldemort, either. 'If it was the lemon-drop that was poisoned, we'll know soon enough,' he said, peering closely at her.

Hermione felt her heart leap into her throat. She did not want to die of poison. Her tongue felt funny, tingly, like a contaminant was seeping its way into her bloodstream. It was her imagination, she knew; still, the psychological effect was enough to make her mouth go dry. A sudden exhaustion poured over her. This was too much for her to handle. The words on her precious chart went blurry until she blinked several times, bringing water back into her eyes.

'I'm awfully tired,' she whispered.

'How do you feel? Strange? Anything neurological?' Voldemort stared at her as though she were a specimen in a jar.

'No,' she said, 'no, I don't think so.' When questioned by an external source, Hermione knew that the lemon-drop effect was in her head. She was tired. After a long day, a previous night of little sleep, and her decision to follow Lord Voldemort, it was a wonder she was still on her feet.

'Back to your room,' Voldemort ordered. 'You're no good to me exhausted or dead.'

'Yes, my Lord,' said Hermione, happy for someone else to order her to give it a break. She needed that; otherwise she was known to push herself to extremes. Gathering her parchment, she stood and so did Voldemort. His hand pushed between her shoulder blades, guiding her out the door. She closed her eyes as she walked. Had it only been twenty-four hours since they had come this way before? Now, Hermione wanted to become a Death Eater. _He's very persuasive, even when he's not trying to be_, she thought. She allowed Voldemort to steer her through the halls toward her bedroom. In her fatigue, she felt relief that she had found a challenge, a home for her questing mind, a place of power in the ranks of Voldemort.

Hermione stopped short, as did Voldemort, when they came round the corner toward Hermione's bedroom. Standing in the hallway, looking furious and self-righteous, stood Ron Weasley. Behind him was Harry Potter. _Oh, yes,_ she thought hazily, _my friends. But why am I friends with them again?_ She could not remember.

'Potter,' Voldemort hissed behind her.

'Voldemort,' Harry said, setting his face into brave lines.

'Hand her over, you!' Ron said, glaring at the Dark Lord's tall frame.

'Why should I?' Voldemort laughed. 'She's safe, isn't she? She's not the one sprawled dead on the floor like your Potions professor… Ah, you already know about that, I see. Was it _you_ who finally bumped off your despised teacher?'

'Enough talk!' Harry said, stepping forward. 'Hermione, come with us. You don't have to be around him anymore.'

Hermione was confused. All she wanted was to crawl into the shadows and sleep, but now she was faced with a premature confrontation between her old loyalties and her new ambitions. 'Harry,' she said. 'Ron. I'm really fine. We've just been working on the mystery. I'm going to sleep now.'

'Hermione, don't you see it!' Ron shouted. 'You-Know-Who,' (Voldemort crowed softly at Ron's fear of his name) 'is trying to turn you to his side!'

Ron's words hung in the hallway, speeding toward Hermione's guilty face.

'No,' Harry said, narrowing his eyes. 'She's already turned. Haven't you, Hermione.'

Hermione did not respond. The soft choice to fall into Voldemort's power now seemed much more difficult when faced with her two best friends, the boys who cared about her, the companions with whom she had been through so much.

'Are you going to betray all of us, then?' Harry asked. 'Throw in your lot with _him_? Turn your back on everyone who cares about you? Hermione, ARE YOU GOING TO PULL A WORMTAIL?'

'No!' Hermione gasped.

'Wormtail!' Harry growled.

'Wait just a minute,' Voldemort said. 'Let's not bring Wormtail into this. For the record, I don't think it's very nice of you to compare the lovely Miss Granger to that creepy little rodent.'

'Is there anyone who actually likes Wormtail?' Ron wondered aloud. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. 'Never mind. The point is, Hermione, you have to come with us!'

She sighed, and glanced between Harry and Ron making their noble stand in the hallway, and Voldemort, who stood calm and thin and white, his red eyes penetrating into her mind like hard gems. 'Can I sleep on it?' she finally said.

'What?' Harry and Ron said together.

'What?' said Voldemort. He dropped his voice to a whisper, a warning. 'Hermione…'

She looked away from all of them, and focused on the pattern in the carpet runner. 'My brain is worn out,' she said. 'I'm too tired to think, and way too tired to deal with all of you. I need sleep.' She crossed her arms in resolution.

'I think she needs to sleep,' Voldemort said, undoubtedly trying to win brownie points by looking after her well-being.

'Hermione, why don't you get some rest,' Harry said, not to be outdone.

'Have sweet dreams, Hermione,' Ron added, giving her a significant glance, and Hermione could tell he was emphasising himself as a subject of sweet dreams.

'Goodnight. Try not to kill each other while I'm gone,' Hermione said, stepping forward and slipping into her room, closing the door with a thud.

* * *

Narcissa sat on the cold marble floor in Severus Snape's guest bathroom. She pulled her knees to her chest and tried to think straight, but thoughts flitted in and out like hummingbirds' wings, too fast to keep track of. It was like being drunk. Narcissa was intoxicated not on alcohol, but on sorrow; she wallowed in self-pity. 

No one had thought to check the bathroom. Narcissa had listened as first Dumbledore came in, with Potter and Ron Weasley. They had left. Then, it was the Dark Lord and that Muggle-born Granger girl; Narcissa had listened to their conversation with interest for a few moments, noting the strange rapport between the two, the callous disregard of Snape's death. It held her focus for a few moments, and then her head collapsed back onto its armrest, her thin blonde hair falling like a curtain about her haggard face.

She had done her best, she really had. Her plan had worked at first: she approached Snape with words of contrition, they drank tea; his cup had the addition of Veritaserum. Narcissa found out about the contents of her husband's last will and testament, changed only days before his death. It had thrown her for the kind of loop she hated: an overturning of all she had believed. Her position was dangerous, insecure; with Lucius's death, the precariousness of her situation only increased.

Narcissa found out from Snape that Lucius Malfoy had bequeathed the entire Malfoy estate to the Dark Lord Voldemort. Its enchantments and powers would be used toward Voldemort's cause. Narcissa and Draco would be allowed to live in the Manor, but trusteeship would pass to Voldemort. In his last moments, Lucius had shown his true colours, trying to do in death what he had failed in life: given the Dark Lord true loyalty.

It was a terrible risk Narcissa took, burning the will. If Voldemort ever found out, he would kill her. But it was not to be borne! She did not marry Lucius Malfoy to be a slave to his political persuasions. When she watched the offensive document go up in smoke, Narcissa felt a surge of triumph. She would protect her family, her name. She had one better on Lucius, for the last time.

Then she had run back to Snape's room, ready to apologise sincerely, ready to suggest that he give up his triple loyalties and stay with her. That was when she discovered his body.

At the sight of it, Narcissa had panicked. She had run to Draco's room, desperate to see her son alive and well (and in the arms of Ginny Weasley; for all his rapid-fire excuses Narcissa could tell Draco liked the girl). That new development had distracted her only for a moment, then she had instructed Draco to keep his doors locked and stay safe.

Soft tears seeped out of Narcissa's eyes and plinked down on the bathroom floor. It was so unfair. What had happened to her house, her life? No one would ever visit her after this weekend; Malfoy Manor was deadly. And every man she touched turned up murdered. 'It's like I have the kiss of death,' she whispered morosely to herself.

Could it be that she had grabbed the wrong vial from the potions storeroom? What if it was not Veritaserum, but some deadly poison? What if Snape had told the truth of his own accord, and she had inadvertently killed him? She sniffled loudly, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Only deep emotional trauma could have induced Narcissa Black Malfoy into such an undignified motion. She got onto her hands and knees and crawled across the cold floor, her hands slapping on the chill stone. She peeked through the door into Snape's bedroom; it was empty.

Narcissa's eyes widened. _It was empty_. There was no one there, not even Snape's lifeless form. The body was gone.

'What?' she said to herself. 'Severus!' she called out. As she had expected there was no answer; still, Narcissa stared at the spot in front of the fireplace where he had lain so recently. What had happened to him? _Corpses do not get up and walk around!_ Narcissa thought. _Well, unless the Dark Lord turned him into an Inferi. But I was listening when he was here, and no such spells were cast_. It was as though the house itself had gobbled up Severus Snape's cadaver.

Narcissa choked up again at this last dishonor, the disappearance of Snape's body, the object of her mourning. _I've been doing nothing but cry all day_, she thought, disgusted with herself. But the tears kept flowing. Narcissa left Snape's room and ran through the halls toward her own chambers, occupied with the notion that she might lock herself in and drink herself unconscious until this unspeakable weekend was over. She reached her room safely, threw off her silk robe onto the floor, and collapsed into bed.

A footstep sounded on her floor.

A breath, drawn through the nose, not belonging to Narcissa.

A clearing of the throat.

With a rush of terrified adrenaline, Narcissa looked up and let out a mangled cry of superstitious fear. The dark figure of Severus Snape stood in front of her, a ghost to haunt her forevermore. 'No,' she whispered. 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'

'Don't cry, Narcissa,' said Snape's voice.

* * *

In the next chapter: 

_'Have you seen Hermione this morning?' Ginny asked, raising her eyebrows in significance._

_'No,' Harry said darkly. 'She's probably with her new master. Voldemort.'_

_Next to Ginny, Draco spluttered over his pumpkin juice. 'Excuse me?' he said._


	15. Clear and Stormy Skies

**Author's Note: **And the thanks go out to: _Possum132, Pussin Boots, QueenThayet12990, Psychotic Poet, ERevel, Maeve Morgan, The Enchanted Teakettle, ParadoxOfInfinity, HarHar, Chica Inglesa, supafly09, Lilith Kayden, nevermore evermore, _and _W.a.c._ You guys make my day every time!

Now the weekend at Malfoy Manor is drawing to a close, it's Sunday, and of course by Monday things must be normal again. Right!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Clear and Stormy Skies**

Harry did not sleep well that night. He bid goodnight to Ron and crawled into his own bed, exhausted, yet sleep did not descend. His mind crawled over recent events: Snape's murder, Hermione's apparent betrayal, and Voldemort…something cold and slimy twisted through Harry's stomach. After Hermione fled into her bedroom, Voldemort stood in the hallway, glowering at Harry. Harry had contemplated what would happen if he and Ron just rushed him, tackled him to the ground and put their hands around his thin white neck and strangled him to death. They never got the opportunity, however. Voldemort's lips had curled into an evil little smile, and he laughed at them.

'Gentlemen,' he said in a mocking voice. Then with a practised swirl of his robes, he was gone back into the shadows.

'Evil bastard,' Ron had muttered after him, shooting a glare at Hermione's closed door.

Harry tossed in his bed, pounding the pillow in remembrance, half-wishing it was Voldemort's face he could sock like a champion. He did not understand girls. Why did Hermione want to follow the Dark Lord? And what was going on with Ginny and Draco Malfoy? Ginny seemed to have some kind of annoyance/hatred/sexual tension thing going on with Malfoy. It was driving Ron to distraction to see his sister in the clutches of the Slytherin git, and Harry felt jealous too, even though he had no claim over Ginny.

Then, there was Pansy Parkinson. A warm liquid feeling settled over Harry at the thought of her and her kisses. Who would have guessed Pansy might go for him? Part of her appeal was the idea of thwarting Malfoy, but Harry was beginning to appreciate her small helplessness, her practical comments, her utter femininity. But with all the brouhaha during the day and night, Harry had not seen her since she went in search of Draco. She was in bed, he presumed, without Harry Potter to watch over her.

And _then, _transcending Harry's girl problems, there was Dumbledore. Harry did not know what was going on with the old man. He thought he knew Albus Dumbledore, but this weekend shattered the notion that Dumbledore was predictable, sane, and reasonable. Dumbledore knew more than he let on; that was normal. It was that feeling of orchestration, with Dumbledore always in the right place at the right time, that made Harry distrust the Headmaster. Harry was being left out of the loop.

'Grrrr,' Harry growled to himself.

After indeterminate hours spent in wakeful tossing and turning, the room finally drifted to black and Harry slept. It was impossible to tell when morning rose, with the storm outside. His bedside clock read eight-thirty, however. He got out of bed feeling groggy and worn from his restless night. A splash of cold water on his face helped, and he adjusted his glasses to a straight angle on his nose.

He made up his mind to check up on Pansy first. He wanted her to know that he cared what happened to her. After all, had they not been assigned as partners the first night? It was Harry's duty to keep watch over 'the girl.' He left his room dressed in his last change of clothes for the weekend; he had expected to be leaving today, Sunday.

Pansy's room was one right-hand turn and five doors down on the left, if he remembered correctly. He faced the glossy door, took a breath, and knocked.

There was no answer. Harry knocked again. 'Pansy?' he called softly. The door creaked open an inch. He saw a pair of long-lashed olive eyes blinking at him.

'Oh, it's you,' she said.

Harry nodded.

She opened the door, and Harry fought hard not to smile in triumph. Pansy was in night-time dishabille, a pretty lacy garment that seemed to have no part in solid cloth. It was short, riding up her thighs, and the thin spaghetti straps looked fragile against her sharp collarbone. Harry cleared his throat; he had a funny strangled feeling.

'What is it?' Pansy asked, batting her eyelashes in perfect innocence of her appearance.

'I, uh, I just thought I should, um – I wanted to check on you,' said Harry. 'Make sure you were safe. I was worried.'

'Oh!' Pansy smiled. 'Thank you. I slept very well, though.'

'G-good,' said Harry, hating himself for the stumble. 'Listen, Pansy –'

'Do you want to come in?' she said, pulling the door open wider. The motion made Harry think of legs. _Oh no, not now, _he thought as his mind created a wild variety of scenes with Pansy Parkinson as the star.

'I better come in,' said Harry. He stepped inside Pansy's room and stood, feeling awkward. He clasped his hands over his front. He made himself focus on anything but her, and settled for reciting potions ingredients in his head. And that reminded him of Snape. 'Have you heard?' he said. 'Snape was killed last night.'

'_What?_' Pansy's hands flew to her mouth in genuine shock. 'What?'

'Yeah,' said Harry. 'Ron and Dumbledore and I found him. He was in his room, just…dead. I guess it was a murder. I couldn't really tell.'

'Oh, Merlin,' Pansy breathed. 'Oh, no.'

'Don't tell me you really liked him!'

'I did, actually!' Pansy crossed her arms over her chest. 'He was a good professor, and a good Head of House. He was very loyal to Slytherin.'

'Yeah, if you were a Slytherin, I guess he was just great,' Harry muttered.

'I think you're prejudiced against him,' Pansy said.

'Me? Prejudiced?' Harry was aghast. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! Pansy Parkinson was a pure-blood snob, one of the girls who hassled Hermione about her Muggle-born status, an elitist and discriminatory soul. 'You're the one who's prejudiced,' he finally said.

'How?' she challenged, setting her feet firmly into the carpet.

'How? You think you're better than everyone else just because you have _pure_ blood. What does that even mean anyway? If it weren't for Muggle-borns, or _mudbloods_ as you call them, wizards would have died out centuries ago. But you go prancing around like you're better, like you're better at magic just because your family is magic. And you're not.'

Pansy's cheeks flushed with anger. 'I'm not prejudiced!' she shrilled. 'It's just a fact about pure-blooded wizards. We handle magic better because we're used to it. Muggles can't be trusted! Don't you pay attention in History of Magic?'

Harry did not pay attention in History of Magic. But he figured that if there was something important, Hermione would have told him.

'Muggles used to kill wizards!' Pansy continued. 'They used to capture them and burn them! That's why Slytherin didn't want Muggle-borns at Hogwarts, because he was afraid they would betray the school. I think you're ignorant, and you don't know enough about magic!'

'Oh, so I've gone from 'most powerful wizard in school' to not knowing anything about magic?' Harry said.

'You weren't brought up as a wizard. There are some things you just don't understand.' She leaned back as though she had won the argument.

'Great. Perfect. So it's up to me to save the wizarding world, but I can see the kind of appreciation I'm going to get for it. Thanks, Pansy. You've helped out a lot.' Harry turned to go. 'Hope you don't get killed while I'm not here to protect you,' he could not resist shooting at her.

Pansy scowled and glared, but did not say anything as Harry left the room.

Back out in the corridor, Harry discovered that the naughty thoughts about Pansy Parkinson had fled his mind; for that he was a little bit sorry. He sighed as he shuffled along, with a mind to find some breakfast. A spot of tea would help calm his temper. Pansy's upset words ran through his head, and Harry wondered about her perspective. How could she accuse him of being prejudiced? He wasn't, was he? Everyone knew that Slytherins were evil and nasty and exclusive about their company. They looked down on others and were horrible. Each and every one of them.

Or perhaps Harry did have prejudices against Slytherin? The uncomfortable idea wormed its way in, and with rare introspection Harry thought about it. Why did he hate Slytherins? Voldemort had been a Slytherin, and he was always trying to kill Harry. Snape was a Slytherin, and he was always unfair and mean and awful to Harry. Draco Malfoy was a Slytherin, and he did his best to make life miserable for Harry and his friends. But what about the rest of them? Harry admitted to himself that these were personal conflicts with people who happened to be Slytherins. There could not be an entire Hogwarts house that was uniformly evil. Maybe Pansy had a point.

He scowled as he walked down the stairs toward the morning room. Ah, well. He could hardly be blamed for having a thing against the serpent house. Even if he was a Parselmouth, and might have fit in well amongst them… 'Ginny!' he called out, seeing the long fiery mane of his best friend's sister at the bottom of the stairs.

'Hi, Harry!' she waved. Then she glanced over to her left, where Harry could not see. When he reached the bottom of the steps, however, he discovered the object of Ginny's attention. Super. It was Draco Malfoy.

'Malfoy,' Harry said, suddenly determined to prove that he could be polite even to a Slytherin.

'Potter,' Malfoy said, looking exhausted. He had shadows under his eyes and a fragile air about his tall, thin frame.

'Do you guys know?' Harry addressed Ginny. 'About Snape?'

'Yeah,' said Ginny. 'Mrs. Malfoy told us last night.'

'Ah,' said Harry. _Wait a minute_. Dumbledore had said that Snape was the signatory on Lucius Malfoy's will. And Narcissa stood to gain the Manor without the physical will present…perhaps she had murdered Snape! Covering her tracks. Harry stayed quiet with Draco standing there; he would run his theory by Ron later, and hopefully Hermione as well.

'Hungry?' Ginny said. Harry thought she was talking to him, but she walked over to Malfoy and touched his arm.

'Yeah,' said Malfoy. 'Coming, Potter?' he tossed over his shoulder in a gloating fashion.

'Absolutely,' said Harry.

* * *

For Ginny, breakfast was strange. Harry sipped on a cup of tea and ate scrambled eggs, staring at his plate as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders. Beside her, Draco was normal enough, aside from the occasional nudges from his foot, the hand that crept to her knee. Ginny tried not to giggle, especially once Dumbledore entered the cool, glittering morning room. The Headmaster ate nine crumpets with marmalade (Ginny counted them) and once or twice he smiled knowingly between Draco and Ginny. How did Dumbledore know everything? 

That was when Ginny remembered Hermione from the night before. She had turned to the dark side, Ginny was positive. She recognised that look of adoration; she'd felt it once toward Tom Riddle, too, crazy manipulative bastard that he was. She wondered if Dumbledore was aware of Hermione's betrayal, as well.

'Harry,' Ginny said.

Harry looked up from his plate, his eyes very green in the morning light.

'Have you seen Hermione this morning?' Ginny asked, raising her eyebrows in significance.

'No,' Harry said darkly. 'She's probably with her new master. Voldemort.'

Next to Ginny, Draco spluttered over his pumpkin juice. 'Excuse me?' he said.

'That's right, Malfoy,' Harry said. 'Count one for your team of evil.'

'Hey,' said Draco. 'I'm not my father, y'know. Besides, Granger, join the Dark Lord? You're making it up.'

'He's not, ferret,' Ron's rejoinder echoed from the doorway. He sat on Ginny's other side, heaping Scottish pancakes onto his plate.

'Just a minute,' said Dumbledore, his blue eyes looking wide and flat. 'What's all this about Hermione?'

Ron nodded at the Headmaster. 'Last night, Harry and I found her. She was with You-Know-Who, of course, and we flat-out asked her if she's thrown in her lot with him. She said she wanted to sleep on it. To sleep on it!'

'I see,' said Dumbledore, stroking his beard, worried.

'Really?' said Draco.

'Really, _Malfoy_,' Ron spat. 'You ought to throw a party. Another evil-doer to join the ranks.'

'Why does everyone seem to think I'm a Death Eater?' Draco whined.

'I don't think you're a Death Eater, Draco,' Ginny said. Everyone turned to stare at her. 'What?' she said. 'I don't. He doesn't have the Mark.'

'Thank you,' said Draco.

Ron gave her a funny look. 'Ginny, how would _you_ know whether Malfoy has the Dark Mark?' His eyes darted past Ginny to give Draco a look of deep warning.

'Don't mind your head about it, Ron,' Ginny said. 'Pass the jam, would you?'

The rest of breakfast went in awkward silence, and Ginny felt the tension seep into the air between Draco and her brother. She was in the middle of it, and the two were each tugging on her, pulling her in opposite directions. _I'm probably imagining things_, she thought. She sighed and pushed her plate away. 'Anyone up for a game of…um…let's see, what could we play…?'

Draco smirked. Ginny avoided meeting his eyes. There would be time for that later, she hoped.

'Exploding Snap?' Dumbledore suggested, pulling out a pack of the playing cards from his pocket. 'You're more than welcome to use my cards.'

'Oh! Thank you, Headmaster,' Ginny smiled. 'I think we will.' She turned to the three boys. 'We can have a tournament.'

Ron made a small noise of disgruntled dissent, but got up from the table to follow them upstairs to Ginny's room, where the Exploding Snap tournament would take place.

'The drawing room would be most comfortable,' Draco said.

'It's out of commission, remember?' Harry said. 'Your father?'

'Oh. Yes.'

'Hey, Ginny!' Ron cried as they entered her pretty green guest room. 'Why isn't your bed slept in?'

'Um…' Ginny shifted on her feet. _Darn it all! Think of an excuse, quick!_

'Don't you know anything, Weasley?' Draco interrupted. 'Oh, that's right. I forgot. Your humble abode doesn't have the luxury of house-elves to make up the beds in the morning. Tell me, do your sheets _ever_ get washed?'

_That works,_ thought Ginny. _Even if it was rude_. As of late, she was so annoyed with Ron and his possessiveness that she could not muster sympathy for him. So, she stayed silent as Ron glared, and Harry stepped in front to ward off any fistfights. Ginny had to admit that Ron would likely win a physical, blow-by-blow fight with Draco.

'Come on, guys,' she said, when the tense silence stretched out too long. 'It'll be Harry and Ron to play first, then Draco and I. The winners of both will play each other. Double elimination, like.'

It might have worked. Ginny hoped that some friendly Exploding Snap would defuse the hard feelings, the fear of being murdered, the untenable situation of being stranded in the storm. She and Draco sat on her bed (she just knew what he was thinking, although he sat at a respectable distance) and watched Harry and Ron play their round of cards on the floor. It started to feel normal. Ginny began to hope.

Then, a knock on the door sounded, and Pansy Parkinson walked in. Harry, apparently distracted by her entrance, lost the game of Snap as Ron trounced him at the last moment. Pansy walked over and plunked herself down on the bed between Ginny and Draco. She put her arm through Draco's, and whispered something in his ear. Ginny felt a flash of hot jealousy flood through her veins, and she wanted to punch Pansy in the face. Through the haze of anger, Ginny noticed that Harry held a similar expression as he stared at the display.

'Drakey,' said Pansy, 'why don't we go somewhere else? You don't want to hang out with these Gryffindors, do you?' She pronounced 'Gryffindor' like a bad taste in the mouth.

'Uh,' Draco said. 'No?'

'No, you won't go somewhere else, or no, you don't want to hang out with us?' Ginny fired.

'He doesn't want to hang out with you,' Pansy answered for Draco. She glanced over Ginny before looking at Harry with utmost disdain. 'Right, Draco?'

Draco was silent.

'Right?'

'Yeah,' said Draco. 'Let's go.'

Ginny's heart sank when she heard the words. Of course, last night had been a one-off event. Of course, Draco would never associate with her outside this insane weekend. Of course, Draco had only kissed her because Pansy was making him jealous by partnering with Harry. The heavy lead vise of knowledge clamped around Ginny's heart, and she could feel the tears start to throb behind her eyes.

Pansy dragged Draco out of the room, shooting one more backwards glance at Harry, and then the pair was gone.

'Good riddance to them,' said Ron. Neither Harry nor Ginny could bring themselves to agree.

Ginny was glum for the rest of the morning. She played Exploding Snap with Ron, but lost because her heart was not in it. Harry did not help matters; he crossed his arms and slumped into the armchair, staring out the window into the black, howling storm.

It was into this downer atmosphere that Hermione appeared in the afternoon. Ginny glanced up at her friend, noting the earnest expression of worry. Hermione fiddled with a lock of her hair, twisting it round and round her finger. 'Hi, guys,' she said.

'Look who's decided to join us,' said Harry.

'Had a nice _sleep_, have you, Hermione?' Ron added.

Ginny watched the exchange, waiting with simple curiosity to see what Hermione would do. She was too caught up in her own drama with Draco to feel much of anything about Hermione's decision, but it was interesting to witness. _All of us have our dark sides,_ Ginny thought.

'I'm sorry,' Hermione said. 'I don't know what I've been thinking. How could you believe I would turn on you? Does our friendship mean that little?'

'No, Hermione!' Harry said. 'It's just that the way you've been spending time with _him_, we thought –'

'We were really worried about you,' Ron interrupted, standing. 'We were afraid he'd affected you.'

Hermione sighed. 'I'll admit he's an interesting person. Harry, don't look at me that way! He is! But I'm not going to be a Death Eater, for heaven's sake. Just because I worked with the Dark Lord to solve this murder mystery doesn't mean I'm a follower.' She gulped, and Ginny wondered if she were trying to convince herself. 'I stand with you, Harry, and you, Ron, one hundred percent.'

'Really?' Harry stood from the chair. 'You mean it?'

'Of course!' Hermione said, a little sob in her voice. 'I just thought for awhile there that you guys didn't really like me, you just used me for schoolwork. That I didn't have real friends.'

_That's what Voldemort told her_, Ginny thought. _Trying to drive her towards him by making her doubt what she has_. It was the same technique the Dark Lord had used on Ginny, through his old diary, telling her that he was her only friend, no one else liked her, why doesn't she just tell him everything instead of making bonds with flesh-and-blood people? On someone like Hermione, Ginny imagined it might work well.

'Of course you have real friends,' Ron said. 'You have us! And although we love that you help us with schoolwork, that's not the only reason we like you.'

'Well said, Ron,' Ginny laughed. 'Hermione, no matter what these louts do,' she gestured to Harry and Ron, 'I'm always your friend.'

'We're not louts,' Harry protested.

It ended with hugs all around, and Hermione had an uncharacteristic sheen of tears in her eyes. But to Ginny's perception, there was something else behind them, a shadow of knowledge that she had not possessed before this weekend. Ginny wondered what the situation really was between Hermione and Voldemort. Her friend was not lying about staying true to Harry; Hermione was too clean and dry to pull off a deception like that. Still…

After they procured some sandwiches from a house-elf and ate in Ginny's room, Ron mumbled something about giving the Exploding Snap cards back to Dumbledore, and Ginny barely noticed his departure. After the Hermione situation was resolved, Ginny's traitorous heart turned back to the subject of Draco.

'So, are Draco and Pansy together, then?' she could not resist throwing out into the conversation.

'I always thought so,' Hermione said.

'They're betrothed,' Harry added with vehemence. 'Pansy said so.'

The words pierced through Ginny. It was to be expected; the old pure-blood families often made such arrangements. Still, for Draco to have made her think he cared…what a wanker.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Harry. 'What's going on with you and Pansy Parkinson, Harry?' she asked.

'Nothing,' Harry muttered.

'Yeah, right,' Hermione persisted. 'I saw you two in the kitchens. You pulled, didn't you?'

Ginny looked up at this. She had gotten the vibe that Harry thought Pansy was cute, but had they actually snogged? Harry's blush confirmed that they had. 'It doesn't matter,' he said. 'This weekend is crazy. Nothing that happens here counts as real.'

'I like that,' Hermione said. 'What happens in Malfoy Manor, stays in Malfoy Manor!'

Ginny laughed in spite of herself. It made it easier to think of Draco that way, for some reason. 'It's a deal!' she declared. 'Call it temporary insanity.' The three put their hands in a pile as a gesture of solidarity.

'Now, let's go find Ron and Dumbledore,' Harry suggested, grabbing his discarded jumper and pulling it over his head. 'It'll be dinner-time soon. Maybe the group of us can work out what to do next.'

'Sounds good to me,' Ginny said, feeling happy. It would be nice to have a reunion of the old Dumbledore's Army team. However, something else nagged at the back of Ginny's brain; she felt off, as though she were listening for something that wasn't there. _Probably Draco Malfoy's sexy, NO! horrible voice._ Shrugging off the inner warning, Ginny ran a comb through her hair and put on some lip gloss. Looking good always gave her more confidence to face the world.

'Ready?' Harry said to the girls.

'Uh, Harry?' Hermione said. A strange quaver floated through her voice as though she, too, felt something different. She stared at a place on the floor behind Ginny.

Ginny tilted her head in puzzlement. What now? She turned around to see what Hermione stared at, and for a moment it did not register. The exquisite green and gold Oriental carpet looked as it had all weekend, except for one key difference.

A bright square of yellow sunlight streamed in from the window.

'It's quiet,' Ginny whispered. Indeed, there were no further sounds of atmospheric disturbance from outside; the wind had died and the lightning stopped. That's what it was, the feeling of something off: there was no thunder.

Harry strode across the room, yanking back the curtains. Beyond the glass pane, the late afternoon was golden, clear, and bright. Somewhere close by, a bird chirped. Harry opened the window and a faint breeze floated inside the room. The air was fresh, magnetised, full of promise and danger.

The magical storm was over.

* * *

In the next chapter: 

_She decided the best plan was to go to the main entrance hall and wait. Her trunk was not packed, but she would leave it behind if that meant avoiding a confrontation between Harry and Voldemort. Or Dumbledore and Voldemort. Or Ron and Draco. Or perhaps Ginny and Pansy?_


	16. Summer Sunshine

**Author's Notes:** HUGE thanks to my reviewers! You make my day with your kind comments. _PsychoticPoet, Lilith Kayden, Possom132, Pussin Boots, Queen Thayet, ParadoxOfInfinity, ERevel, Maeve Morgan, Sunria, Embellished, TammyLynnSlark, M, supafly09, KrazieChikadee, ooarienetteoo, _and_ Firebreathing Ghost_, love you all!

It's Sunday at Malfoy Manor, the storm is over, and so things must go back to normal soon for our poor strandees. But not before finding out who murdered Lucius Malfoy! Oh, and at the end of this chapter: I know there are seven people in the room. One jaw did not drop.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Summer Sunshine**

'My wand!' Harry burst. 'It's in my room. I have to go get it.'

Panic flooded Hermione in rough waves as she realised what it meant to have the storm disappear. The limits on magic had lifted. Voldemort could kill Harry, or Harry could kill him. She tried to remember where her own wand was. She could not recall where she put it; its obsolescence over the weekend had made Hermione lose her vigilance.

Ginny, too, looked panicked. 'Harry, don't do anything stupid!'

'Like what? Kill Voldemort?' Harry shouted. 'I'm going!' He ran across Ginny's guest room and threw open the door, disappearing down the hall.

'Oh, God,' Hermione groaned.

'My wand is in Draco's room,' Ginny said miserably.

'I don't even know where mine is!' Hermione said.

The two girls regarded each other for a moment. 'I'm sorry, Ginny, but I've got to go,' Hermione said. She could not believe how fast the magical storm had cleared. It was one thing to read about them; she knew in theory that magical storms could disappear as quickly as they whipped up. To witness it was another story. In a matter of minutes, the wild weather had lifted, leaving the land breathless and the air thick with afterglow.

When she left Ginny's room, Hermione's thoughts stayed occupied with finding her wand. She was not sure what the storm had done to the spell fog over the Manor as part of Lucius Malfoy's house arrest; she could only assume the spell fog had been destroyed. All kinds of magic might now be possible: Apparition, dueling, the Unforgivable Curses cast by Voldemort or Harry or both. 'Oh, God,' she said to herself again. She broke into a run for her room.

She burst into her blue-upholstered suite, noting in agony the sunshine streaming through her own windows. Never had a golden August evening in England held so much potential for destruction. Frantically she rummaged through her trunk, looked on her nightstand, her bathroom…no wand. 'Dammit, dammit, double dog dammit!' she muttered, about to cry in frustration. How could she misplace it? She collapsed into an armchair (the very one Lord Voldemort occupied two nights previous) and thought over all the places where her wand could be.

Did she have it at the dinner with Lucius Malfoy? _Yes. We all had our wands then._ Did she have it in the drawing room, where Malfoy was murdered? _Yes._ Afterwards, she had gone off with Voldemort. They went to the library, where she read about ancient runes, and Ginny had screamed… 'The library!' she said aloud. She had set her wand down on a table while she was reading, and must have left it when they pursued the scream.

'Right, Granger, let's go,' she told herself, gathering her courage. Merlin only knew what hexes and curses would be flying in the halls now that the storm was over.

She opened her door with caution and peeked her head out into the corridor. It was silent. The lack of noise, of voices, felt ominous to Hermione. She set off at a brisk pace toward the main staircase, praying to some nebulous higher power that all was safe. It was not the first time since last night that she missed Voldemort's strong, openly evil, cunning, protective presence next to her.

Not a soul did Hermione meet on the way to the library. By the time she entered the grand double doors into the elegant stacks of books, she pondered whether everyone had simply Apparated away from the Manor without telling her. Her eyes scanned the place where she sat two nights ago, landing on the table…which was empty. Another wash of dismay. She ran forward, looking around, under the seat cushion, and she pushed the chair out of the way. Hermione let out an audible gasp of relief. Her wand was there, tucked under the chair, rolled from its place on the table and residing in quiet shelter all weekend. She grasped it in her hand, relishing the familiar smooth feeling of wood. 'I'll never leave you again,' she told her wand. 'I'm sorry.'

Then her head tilted up; there were voices in the hall outside. She listened for a moment; it sounded like Dumbledore, she recognised the deep, lulling timbres of his voice. But the other – Hermione's brow furrowed. It sounded almost like Professor Snape. That was impossible, she had seen the man dead for herself. She opened the doors of the library to see, but the hallway was empty. _Now I'm hearing things,_ she thought.

She decided the best plan was to go to the main entrance hall and wait. Her trunk was not packed, but she would leave it behind if that meant avoiding a confrontation between Harry and Voldemort. Or Dumbledore and Voldemort. Or Ron and Draco. Or perhaps Ginny and Pansy? Hermione counted herself lucky that she did not have any mortal enemies at the moment. She did wonder what Voldemort would do when he discovered she did not want to become a Death Eater after all. Hermione shrugged. With luck, she would leave Malfoy Manor without seeingthe Dark Lord again.

Hermione was halfway to the entrance hall when her world crashed around her. She was passing by Lucius Malfoy's study when she heard the words spit out of the door, floating through the evening's golden sunshine like hot germs in a plague.

'_Avada Kedavra,_' Voldemort's now-familiar voice purred from inside the room.

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. Her head swiveled, preparing to meet the flash of green light that was intended for her. Her eyes widened in surprise.

It was Lord Voldemort in the study, yes. But he did not direct his curse at Hermione. He sat in the shadows, in a dark green leather armchair. His white face glowed with reflected sunlight, and between his fingers he held some small object Hermione could not discern. Deep rays of the setting sun came through the windows, casting the room into extremes of black and gold. Somehow, the presence of the light made Voldemort's countenance even more terrifying, even more beautiful in its stark structure.

'Good evening,' he said. Hermione was reminded of Count Dracula in the film she had watched as a child.

'What did you kill?' Hermione blurted.

Voldemort let out a small breath of laughter. He held up his two fingers pinched together, and discarded the small black speck between them. 'A housefly,' he said.

Hermione stared at him. 'You used the Killing Curse on a _fly_?'

'It was annoying me,' he gestured to the open window. 'Buzzing and hovering, and the stupid thing kept running into the glass.'

'That's what they call overkill,' Hermione muttered under her breath. Voldemort must have heard her, because he smiled.

'Sit down,' he commanded. 'Would you care for some tea?'

'Tea?' Hermione echoed weakly. She reminded herself that the magical storm was over. Voldemort had just used the Killing Curse with success. All bets were off, all protection from the magical interference was gone. Her best move would be to run away, as fast as she could. Apparate somewhere safe. She stepped towards Voldemort. 'All right, then,' she said, tucking her wand away and sitting in the armchair opposite the Dark Lord. The sun hit the side of her head, filtering through her hair so that the cloud of curls floated in her peripheral vision.

Voldemort conjured two cups in the air, and a teapot that poured steaming black tea into each, and a small pitcher of milk that added itself at the right moment. Hermione's fine china cup hovered towards her hands, and her fingers took it by the handle. One cautious sip so she would not burn her tongue, and Hermione discovered it was the right temperature and just the amount of milk she favoured.

'This is Assam tea,' she said.

'It's my preference,' Voldemort said.

'Mine, as well,' Hermione said, startled.

They sipped in silence for a few moments. Outside, the sun sank toward familiar darkness. Hermione felt helpless, like a tidal wave had tossed her into unfriendly seas where she was at the mercy of the man before her.

'Let us discuss your future,' Voldemort said, and Hermione wanted to cry. _He's just playing with me,_ she thought in desperation. _Like a cat playing with a mouse. He'll be polite, he'll have tea, lull me in, and he's going to kill me_.

'My future, sir?' she said. She knew the game was up. Voldemort was a Legilimens; he could read her thoughts, her doubts, her loyalties. In the end, Hermione Granger was a Gryffindor, and she would not turn against her friends. She would stand and be brave, even in this last moment.

'I think you have reneged on your earlier decision to follow me,' Voldemort said in his well-modulated voice.

'Sir?' Hermione was not going to give him anything to work with, if she could help it. The tea cooled in her cup.

'Yes, I think you've decided to stick with Potter. That is unfortunate.'

Hermione marshalled a glare. One idiotic thought penetrated her fear: when Voldemort killed her, they would never find out together who really murdered Lucius Malfoy. The mystery would never be solved! Credit would never be taken! Somehow, that seemed the worst thing of all.

Voldemort's red eyes glittered. 'You believe I'm going to kill you.'

'Yes, sir, I do,' Hermione said.

'You're wrong,' he said softly. 'I won't kill you. Not today, anyway.' He finished his tea and with a wave of his wand, banished it from sight. 'Are you through?' he asked her, nodding at her own cup. Hermione nodded, and the cup buoyed away from her. 'No, Miss Granger,' Voldemort continued. 'I've grown to know your mind over these days. Dry, hard, cold, logical. You're like a little machine, aren't you? A machine with hurt feelings.'

Hermione could not think of a response to him. His unpredictability drove her mad.

He leaned forward. 'Let us come to an agreement.'

'What sort of agreement?' Hermione asked, cautious. Whatever he had in mind, it was sure to benefit him more than her.

'Perhaps,' Voldemort began, 'we might continue our intellectual exchange.'

Hermione's ears must have deceived her, because she thought there was a note of uncertainty in the melody of his voice. 'How so?' she asked.

'Letters,' Voldemort said. 'I shall write to you. I will answer your questions on the intellectual pursuits that take you above and beyond what Hogwarts has to offer. A mind like yours, Hermione, should not be wasted.'

Her eyebrows lifted. 'Really? Letters?'

'Yes.'

'My Lord, from what I know of your character, you do not give free advice,' Hermione said. With a tremor, she continued. 'What must I offer in exchange?'

'Make a list for me every now and again,' Voldemort said.

Finally, Hermione smiled. She could not deny to herself the thrill that Voldemort's company offered. This was the perfect solution. They would write letters. In the ease of the strange truce, she remembered one more mystery item about which she wanted Voldemort's opinion. 'Sir,' she said. 'There's something I wanted to tell you about. Last night, Ron and Harry came upon a room with smoke coming out of it. Inside, they discovered a cauldron with a burning stack of papers; they were only able to salvage the title page. It was the last will and testament of Lucius Malfoy. Someone burned it.'

Voldemort tilted his head. 'Indeed,' he said. He sat back in the chair. 'Someone burned Malfoy's will. That _is_ interesting.'

'I thought so,' said Hermione. 'And Dumbledore said that Snape was the signatory. And then he turned up dead.'

Voldemort's eyes flared at this. 'Snape!'

'Yes, sir.'

'It must have been Narcissa who burned the will,' Voldemort said. 'She's the only one who could have been harmed by it. As it stands, the estate passes to her. But the only person who knew the true contents was Snape, who's dead. It's safe to assume that he died at Narcissa's hand.' He frowned. 'Snape never told me he was the signatory on a will.'

'He's a liar, you said so yourself,' pointed out Hermione.

'Yesss…' Voldemort hissed. 'Only now I wish he were still alive, so that I might extract the truth from him.'

Hermione shivered at what that meant. But then, there was never any love lost between herself and Snape, so the sympathy was short-lived. 'Doesn't that pretty much rule out Narcissa as Lucius's murderer?'

'No,' said Voldemort. 'Perhaps she murdered him, thinking the estate would pass to her. Then, from Snape, she found out the contents of the will, which obviously gave the estate to some other entity. She burned the will and killed Snape to cover her tracks.'

'Aha,' said Hermione. 'That makes sense…. Oh! But what about Bellatrix?'

Voldemort made a low, incoherent noise and pressed his hands to his temples. 'That's right. This is impossible.'

'It is impossible,' Hermione agreed.

After several minutes of companionable silence, the Dark Lord stood. The sun had set completely, leaving a mere fading trace of bluish light on the western horizon out the window. 'I must go and kill Potter,' he said, bringing out his wand. He reached out with his hand and traced Hermione's cheek with a finger. 'Keep your options open, my dear.'

Hermione felt a shiver run through her skin under his touch. It was not unpleasant. 'Yes, my Lord,' she whispered, bowing her head.

Voldemort disappeared through the door.

* * *

Pansy's lips worked against Draco's in their tired old ways. They were in Pansy's guest room, where they had spent the day in heavy silence. Draco read a book; Pansy filed her nails and then re-arranged the clothes in her trunk. A quarter of an hour ago, she walked over and dropped herself in Draco's lap, running her little hands over his chest. 

'Want to?' she asked. Draco had shrugged in unenthusiastic acquiescence.

Now, fifteen minutes later, Draco could not muster up a response to her. He was cold to Pansy Parkinson after the quivering flame that was Ginny Weasley. Pansy's heart did not seem to be in it, either; she moved mechanically, repeating the same motions over and over, her eyes occasionally flickering open and moving about the room as though looking for someone.

'What's the matter, Drakey?' she said.

'I hate when you call me that,' Draco said.

'Fine, Drac-oh. What's wrong?'

'You tell me, Pansy,' Draco sighed and pushed her off him. She landed in an unceremonious heap on the floor.

'Hey!' she cried, jumping up. 'That was not nice.'

'Save it for someone who cares,' Draco said.

Pansy crossed her arms and frowned down at Draco. 'What is going on with you? It's that Weasel girl, isn't it? You like her, don't you?'

'Oh, you're one to talk,' Draco turned the conversation around on her. 'I noticed you and Potty getting pretty close.'

Pansy blushed. 'Harry – I mean, Potter – I mean, Potty has nothing to do with this. You're acting mean, Draco, and I want to know why!' Her voice climbed to a shrill at the end, grating on Draco's nerves.

'Gee, I don't know, Pansy. Let's think about that. My father is murdered, my aunt is murdered, my mother was poisoned, my professor was murdered, and in all likelihood I'm next. I'm stuck in a house with the Saint Gryffindors _and_ the Dark Lord, and you're asking me why I'm not into you _at the moment_! Tell me, do you even have a brain?'

Pansy turned away and gazed in the direction of her closed curtains. 'Whatever, Draco Malfoy. Why don't you just take a walk in the storm; maybe you'll get picked up by the wind and deposited in some other country. That way you can't bother England anymore.' She sniffed. 'I bet they'd love you in Germany.'

'Yeah, right,' Draco said, scoffing at the idea of even opening a window in this weather. With the hurricane-force gale, and the electrical energy, the lightning and thunder and – _wait a minute_. Draco paused his thoughts and listened. There was no thunder. 'Wait a minute,' he said aloud. He stood and walked across the room, drawing the curtains wide. Behind him, Pansy gasped. 'The storm is over,' Draco said.

She was at his side, gazing out onto the clear, darkening twilight of a summer's eve. The yard was a mess of tree limbs and uprooted grass, but the sky to the east already twinkled with faint stars. 'How long has it been over?' she wondered.

Draco tried to think how long it had been since he last heard thunder. At least an hour, perhaps more. 'I dunno,' he said. Then the full implications hit him: he could use magic! He needed to get his wand! The rest of it rolled over him after that. Potter could use magic. Dumbledore could use magic. Lord Voldemort could use magic. 'Oh, Gods,' he muttered. 'Pansy, I've gotta go get my wand.'

'Oh my gosh,' she said. 'What if the Dark Lord and Harry Potter have another showdown?'

'That's what I'm counting on,' Draco said over his shoulder as he headed for his locked bedroom. He heard Pansy scurrying along behind him. He kept expecting the noises of magical combat, curses and explosions. What he got when he turned the corner was a greater shock: Ginny Weasley, sitting cross-legged in front of his bedroom door. Pansy's indignant huff behind him said she, too, noticed the slight redhead's position.

'Malfoy,' Ginny said. 'I need to get into your room.'

'Why?' Draco asked. He wished Pansy would go away.

'My wand is in there,' she said, shrugging and lifting herself up off the floor.

Pansy screeched. 'Why is your wand in Draco's room?'

'Wouldn't you like to know,' Ginny said coldly.

'Never mind,' Draco said. He brought out the skeleton key to his door and unbolted it. It swung open on well-kept hinges. 'Go on,' he said to Ginny, and jerked his head in the direction of his room.

She squared her shoulders and walked in, picked up her wand from the nightstand, and walked back toward the door without a further word.

Draco felt a crack of hurt in his chest. It was as though last night never happened, and with remorse, Draco remembered how he felt about Ginny Weasley: like she was the key to his happiness, the only thing to give him passion in a cold life. She would have been his triumph, his trophy, his foil against society, his last rebellion against what his father would have wanted. The thought of making Lucius Malfoy turn in his grave made Draco viciously gleeful.

But now, Ginny acted like she did not know Draco. _She's probably thought it over and decided she'd rather stick with good, safe, perfect Potter_, he thought. His regret doubled when he remembered that they had not even gone all the way. He'd wanted to respect her, to turn her into a long-term object of affection. Now, he would never get the chance. _Bugger it all_.

'Where's Saint Potter?' Draco could not resist saying to Ginny, if only to keep her in his line of sight for a few seconds longer. She was halfway out the door but halted and turned back.

'Harry's gone to get his wand,' she said. Her face was emotionless; she did not rise to Draco's caustic attitude. 'In case you've forgotten, the Dark Lord is under your roof. I rather think they're going to duel it out.'

'Oh, no,' Pansy whimpered.

Draco looked at Pansy, startled. For a moment he had forgotten she was there. Now, worry lines appeared on her forehead; she appeared genuinely concerned for Pothead's well-being. _Another one bites the dust_, Draco thought. Then he cursed his over-active brain for coming up with too much analysis.

'I think we'd better go find them,' Pansy said, wringing her hands together. 'Maybe, Ginny, you can convince Harry to Apparate somewhere else?'

'He wouldn't listen,' Ginny said. 'You know him.'

'Yes,' Pansy said, and her shoulders collapsed.

'Oh, for the sake of Merlin, Arthur, and Morgana!' Draco burst. 'If you two are so bloody anxious about Potter, maybe we had better go find him. I'm sure he'd love to have all the girls fawning before he died.'

Ginny rolled her eyes. 'Yet again, Draco, you reveal your inferiority complex when it comes to Harry.'

Draco was torn between making a nasty retort, and smiling because Ginny was back to using his first name instead of 'Malfoy.' He chose the retort. 'How could I have a complex, when he's the inferior half-blood noble idiot?'

'Oh, knock it off,' Pansy added. 'And let's go already, before somebody else gets killed!'

'Yeah, like us, for interfering,' Draco said under his breath.

Ginny heard him, and almost looked as though she agreed.

The problematic trio made their way back down the corridors toward the entrance hall. It was the only space big and empty enough to have a proper duel. Draco felt his heart leap up into his throat when he beheld the scene there: Harry Potter stood, wand brandished, in front of the great front door. The crystal chandelier blazed with a million facets of light, reflecting off the shining marble floor, illuminated every corner of the hall. Beside Harry stood Ron Weasley, looking bullish and obstinate.

Draco realised that the great confrontation, the pivotal battle of the wizarding world, would take place in his front hall. Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort would fight to the death. Draco hoped they would kill each other, because neither winner offered much in the way of consolation to the Malfoy family.

'Harry!' Pansy shouted across the hall from the upper balcony. Potter looked at her, his face blank as a slate. 'I'm sorry!' she cried.

'You are?' Harry shouted back. His voice echoed off the gleaming stone.

'Yeah!' Pansy said.

'Oh, what a beautiful reunion,' Draco could not resist adding in a snarky tone. He leaned up against the balcony, draping his arms over the handrail to watch. Potter and Weasley ground their heels down, getting into a battle stance.

'Ron!' Ginny shouted. 'What are you doing?'

'We're going to fight You-Know-Who, Ginny!' Ron replied.

'Why don't we just get out of here?' she pleaded in the general direction of the Dream Team.

'That's right,' Draco added, feeling enthusiastic. 'Run away, run away, live to fight another day!'

'Shut up, Malfoy,' Ron said. 'I think you're a bloody coward and –' he broke off, his attention grabbed by the sound of a door opening. Ginny gasped and grabbed Draco's hand. He smiled at her, wondering what inspired this welcome change of heart, then he followed her gaze downwards. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

Lord Voldemort glided across the hall. Never had he looked more frightening, more dangerous, more on top of his game. Draco gulped. He was about to see more death. This weekend had sated his taste for it; all Draco Malfoy wanted was to love and be loved in return. To understand, and be understood. To drink fine wine and live in a big house and have everyone worship him – 'Oh, no,' he groaned. In the hall beneath him, from his front-row balcony seat, Harry and Voldemort got into the duelling position.

'Oh, brave, noble, stupid Harry,' Ginny whispered.

Draco could not agree more.

Pansy Parkinson cried again, tears seeping down her cheeks, and she hid her face in her hands. 'I don't want to watch,' she said, turning away.

'Let's take bets,' Draco said, enjoying his own unhelpfulness.

Voldemort's high, smooth voice echoed through the great entrance hall. 'I see you have a second, Potter. I won't be needing one.'

'That's right, because you'll be dead,' Harry growled.

Voldemort laughed. 'Do I have to tell you to bow again, Potter?'

'Not at all,' Harry said, dipping his torso forward.

Voldemort did the same. Draco saw the Dark Lord's wand at the ready, long and thin and white, like him. Deadly.

It happened in such a flash that Draco never did register the spells properly. All he knew was that a red light came from Harry's wand, and a green light came from Voldemort's. The spells met dead centre above the black-and-white marble maze in the centre of the floor, and a peculiar golden web surrounded the two duelists, lifting them up in the air. A jet of golden light connected the tips of the two opposing wands, with little beads of red and green light streaming along. Draco had never seen anything like it.

'Not this again!' Harry could be heard to shout.

'Oh, this is always fun,' said Voldemort.

That was when Hermione Granger appeared on the scene. She burst into the entrance hall and skidded to a halt, off to the side and between the enemies like a scowling referee. 'Honestly, you two! When are you ever going to learn! _Priori Incantatum_ means that two wands that share the same core, in this case the core of a phoenix feather given by a certain bird from which only two feathers were given…' Granger rattled on and on, her strident lecture growing louder and louder.

'Shut up!' Voldemort and Harry shouted together.

Granger broke off mid-stream of her speech, looking offended.

'This requires a great deal of concentration, you know,' Voldemort said from within the crackling gold sphere, his wand shaking like it was about to shatter.

'Yeah, Hermione,' Harry added, gripping his wand with both hands.

'Sor-ry!' Hermione grumped. 'I was just trying to be helpful.'

Draco watched the whole thing in awe, transfixed by the sight of such pure magical power. Was this what had happened to Potter during the Tri-Wizard incident? If so, Draco understood why Harry had looked so rotten afterwards. He watched the back and forth motion of green and red, neither one reaching the other. He was acutely conscious of Ginny's hand gripping his.

'What's happening?' Ginny whispered.

'I don't know,' Draco said. 'I think whoever gets their spell to the other side wins. It's just concentration.'

'I don't want Harry to die,' Ginny said, sounding tearful like Pansy, who had retreated to the other wall and buried her head in her arms, peeking up on occasion to see how the duel was progressing.

Draco looked over at Ginny, at her pretty face lit up from the rare magic playing out below them. He wanted to ask her whether she loved Potter. But he did not dare; what if she said yes?

'I don't want him to die,' she said again. 'I don't want Tom to die, I –' she cut herself off as Draco's eyes widened.

'What?' he croaked. 'Tom? You mean the Dark Lord?'

'No,' she blurted. 'I mean, I don't want anyone to die.' She sighed, sounding miserable. 'Oh, Draco, I think I need to stay away from all dark-haired men from now on. They're nothing but trouble.'

'I agree with you,' Draco said, taking his opportunity to be bold and putting his arm about Ginny's shoulders, pulling her close to him. 'I think you belong with a blonde.'

Potter and the Dark Lord each looked to be tiring. Their faces beheld none but each other. Ron Weasley danced around the golden circle, looking for a chance to zap Voldemort, but it was between the two arch-enemies now. And where was Dumbledore? Draco would have thought the old man would be there for Potter when it really counted. This intense connection could not last forever; one of them would tire, lose focus, and that would be the end of it. Draco felt the pressure rising in the air, emanating in waves to catch him up on the balcony.

Then, something happened that broke the connection; that caused Voldemort and Potter both to swing their wands away from each other and towards a third shadowed figure standing in the front door.

A voice rang out. 'In the name of the Ministry of Magic, you are both under arrest!'

Six jaws dropped in shock as a very-much-alive Severus Snape stepped forward into the house.

* * *

In the next chapter: the accusations will be made! Truths uncovered! The culprit unmasked! 


	17. The Butler Did It

**Author's Notes: **First, the thanks: all of you who have read and reviewed this story so far, you're the best! Every comment, theory, and encouragement had been wonderful. To _Possum132, Maeve Morgan, Psychotic Poet, I'm Blond.James Blond., QueenThayet, Embellished, ERevel, Flashyfirebird, HarHar, ParadoxOfInfinity, The Enchanted Teakettle, Pussin Boots, amy-the-rat, KrazieChikadee, GoodQueenA, supafly09, hedwig1234,uniquegirl100, new person, nevermore evermore, DanceswithHippogriffs, Firebreathing Ghost, Litha Riddle, Optio30, StarLightStarBright567, M, ssalsa79, _and _Mrs. Panda Eyes_, this one's for you.

I'm back! And here it is! The final chapter. It's double-length, double the silliness, double the fun, etc. As you might figure out, I've dropped clues for each of the five endings throughout the story, so pick the one you like best :-)

A great many of you will recognize one of these endings as one of the more ridiculous HP theories that's floated around out there. And for the reference: the Overlook is the name of the evil, sentient hotel in Stephen King's 'The Shining.'

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

**The Butler Did It**

Voldemort was ready to just kill Potter already. Get it over with. Eliminate the 'one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord' and all of that. His eagerness brought him ahead of himself, and he already plotted his next moves after Potter's death. Take his Death Eaters in hand, kill Dumbledore, storm the Ministry, instate himself as leader of wizarding Britain, snatch Hermione Granger and bring her back to his headquarters, where she could see _his_ library… Old Mr. Ollivander, languishing in Voldemort's dungeons, was going to pay again for selling to Harry Potter the one wand that could induce the _Priori Incantatum _effect.

His plans and malicious revenges became moot when the front door to Malfoy Manor swung open and Severus Snape stepped inside. Voldemort broke the connection to Harry's wand, and he only just kept his jaw from dropping in shock. 'You!' he said to Snape.

'I said, you are under arrest!' Snape repeated, pointing his wand first at Harry Potter, then at Voldemort. 'As we speak, the spell fog is being replaced on the Manor by a remote team of Aurors. Do not try to cast offensive spells again.'

'Oh, bugger,' said Potter.

'_Expelliarmus!_' Snape shouted, and Potter's wand flew into Snape's hand. Voldemort had only a second to gloat before his wand, too, whizzed away from him and into the long-fingered grasp of Snape.

Next was Ron Weasley, who made a noise of protest as his wand was taken, then Hermione who gave hers up without a fuss. Snape sneered. 'Will the crowd gathered on the balcony please make their way down here?'

Voldemort peered up into the shadowed area of the first story, noting a collection of faces who had evidently decided to watch the big duel. Parkinson, the Weasley girl, Draco Malfoy. Like sheepish students, they came down the stairs.

'You are ALL under arrest!' Snape declared. 'Narcissa, come forward please.' Voldemort whirled again as Narcissa Malfoy emerged from the dark dining room. She walked over to Snape and put her hand on his arm, but he shrugged her off. 'Now,' said Snape. 'Everyone into the drawing room.'

'What is the meaning of this, Severus?' Voldemort hissed to Snape as they walked into the lit-up drawing room. He poured danger into his voice, counting on Snape to pick up Voldemort's dark mood. It was that light, high voice he used right before casting the Cruciatus, or the Avada Kedavra. Snape would know.

'It's just that time,' Snape said. 'To find out who murdered Lucius Malfoy. The Aurors will arrive in approximately two hours. When they do, I am going to have the culprit in hand.'

'Huh,' said Voldemort. Two hours gave him plenty of time to escape…as soon as he had his wand back. But there was so much to uncover! The first order of business to Voldemort's way of thinking was to discover how and why Severus Snape was still alive. He had thought himself rid of the double-triple-quadruple agent. However, the living, breathing Snape stood next to Lucius Malfoy's body, regarding them all with the look that Voldemort imagined was reserved for out-of-line students.

Lucius's body must have been charmed by the house-elves against decay, because it retained its 'freshly dead' look even after two days. Voldemort stood behind it, keeping himself separated from the rest of the party. Snape walked back and forth in front of the fireplace, gesturing for the others to sit. When Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley sat together on the sofa, Voldemort noticed they held hands. Likewise, Pansy Parkinson situated herself next to Harry Potter, who still glared at Voldemort with the longing of a kill left unfinished.

'_You wish, Potter,_' Voldemort opened the mind connection for a moment, just to freak out the kid. It worked; Harry's eyes widened and he rubbed his scar, looking away.

Hermione Granger sat ramrod-straight on one of the smaller chairs, and her eyes trailed across the room to land on Voldemort. He tilted his head at her, feeling (almost) regret. He had to admit he would miss their little wordplays. The girl was a born debater, and Voldemort often found himself wishing for a worthy sparring partner amongst his Death Eaters. Snape sometimes sufficed, but after tonight Voldemort did not think he would be seeing Severus Snape again, except perhaps to kill him. Hence, the brilliance of his plan: he and Granger could write letters to one another, above and beyond their respective sides in the wizarding war. Voldemort knew how persuasive he was, especially through the written word (after all, his weapon-Horcrux had been an interactive diary!) and he knew that someday, sometime, Hermione Granger would come back to him. He was a patient man. He could wait.

'We are gathered here today because of the murder of this man, Lucius Malfoy,' said Snape, bringing the clattering of the room to a silence. 'First, I have a confession to make. I, Severus Snape, am far more than a professor of Potions. I am, in fact, _Inspector_ Snape of the Centre for the Catching of Appalling Criminal Associates (CACA for short)! It is a top-secret Ministry division charged with the resolution of high-profile murder cases such as this one. My function here this weekend has extended beyond that of mere guest. I have been watching each and every one of you!'

The room muttered in surprise and consternation. Snape? A detective Inspector? No one could have guessed it.

'We thought you were dead,' Hermione said, sounding disappointed to find him otherwise.

'Ah, yes,' said Snape. 'The Draught of Living Death is most useful to convey that impression.'

Voldemort felt like kicking himself. Of course. He should have thought to check for potions that feigned death, especially with the Potions Master involved.

'You see,' Snape continued, 'I knew that my position had become precarious. I knew that I stood a chance of being killed myself. So, with the help of some specially-altered lemon drops I carry around for this very purpose, I ingested the potion. When all of you believed me dead, I removed myself from the equation to wait for the murderer to reveal themselves.'

Voldemort felt even worse. It should have been obvious, after Hermione became fatigued when she tasted the potion-infused lemon drop in Snape's room. He noticed the dawning on Hermione's face, and she looked like she felt the fool, as Voldemort did.

'Wait a minute,' Ron Weasley said loudly. 'Why did you think somebody wanted to murder you?'

'Who wouldn't want to murder him?' Harry Potter muttered. Voldemort heard it, as Snape must have, for the Potions Master/CACA Inspector whirled on the Potter kid.

'There were many reasons,' Snape said. He looked at each person in turn, pausing in particular on Narcissa Malfoy. _Ah yes, _thought Voldemort. _Hermione said Narcissa burned Lucius's will last night. Narcissa must wish Snape dead above all._ Echoing Voldemort's thoughts, Snape nodded. 'Yes,' he said, 'as many of you have guessed, I was the signatory on Lucius Malfoy's will. I am the last person alive who knew its true contents.'

With an interested ear, Voldemort waited to hear the revelation. This, he thought, would unveil the murderer, the prime suspect, the one with the most to gain from the death of Lucius Malfoy. Who, above all these people sharing a common hatred of the man, _most_ wanted him dead? Who would inherit Malfoy Manor?

'The terms of the will were quite standard,' said Snape. 'As in wizard tradition, the estate passes, and always did pass, to the next of kin, in this case Mrs. Malfoy.'

Voldemort blinked in surprise. Why, then, had Narcissa felt the need to burn a will that left her as the beneficiary? Perhaps she thought the will to be evidence of her complicity in her husband's death, but the spouse was always the first suspect in a murder anyway. It just made her look more guilty.

Narcissa Malfoy gazed at Snape with tears in her eyes. She, too, seemed surprised by Snape's words, and Voldemort could not shake the feeling that there was something Snape was not telling.

'So why did you burn the will?' Ron Weasley shouted to Narcissa. Voldemort wished the boy would use his indoor voice.

Narcissa shook her head. 'It reminded me of him,' she said, tearful and grieved. 'I couldn't stand to see his name, his signature…it was silly of me, I know, but I couldn't help it. Like Snape said, there was nothing about the will that was unusual, but I couldn't bear the finality of it.' At this, she let the tears stream down her cheeks. 'I want to believe he's just sleeping!'

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. Narcissa Malfoy was lying. He knew it. The theatrics, the tears, the insistence of 'nothing unusual' in the will…there was something fishy on the air. Furthermore, the ex-Mrs. Death Eater refused to look in Voldemort's direction. Voldemort did not take well to secrets, and he would find out the truth here. A little interrogation of Narcissa Black Malfoy should do the trick.

Unfortunately, now was not the time to pursue the occult secrets of Lucius Malfoy's will. Snape again paced the room, cleared his throat, made the announcement.

* * *

_Here's what happened next:

* * *

_

'Now,' Snape said. 'Of the murder of Lucius Malfoy, I _accuse_: Harry Potter!'

The whole room swung their heads to look at Harry, who crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, chin stuck out stubbornly. 'So what if I did?' he said. 'We all wanted Malfoy dead. I did everyone a favour.'

'Harry!' Ginny Weasley said, twisting her body around to look at the boy. 'You didn't really, did you?'

'I think he did!' Voldemort interjected, in an effort to be helpful. 'He had the best motive of anyone, didn't you, Potter?'

'Lucius Malfoy was a convicted Death Eater,' Harry said. 'He should be rotting in Azkaban. I just decided to take matters into my own hands.'

'But how?' Hermione asked. 'You didn't tell any of us about this plan!'

'I was almost sorted into Slytherin,' Harry said. 'I can keep secrets, y'know.'

'I knew it!' Pansy Parkinson shrieked. 'I got paired with the murderer!'

'Yes,' Harry sighed. 'A few times there, I really did want to kill you, Pansy. But I'd rather kiss you.' He grabbed Pansy and snogged her in front of the whole room.

'Ugh,' said Voldemort, disgusted by the display of post-adolescent passion.

'Stop, stop, stop,' Hermione said. 'First off, Harry, you have some explaining to do. How did you kill Lucius? And what about Bellatrix?'

Harry gloated and pushed Pansy away. 'It was brilliant, really. One of my better ideas. You'd be proud, Hermione.'

'I'll reserve judgment on that,' she said, pursing her lips.

'Well. As you are all aware, Malfoy was a Death Eater, caught at the Ministry, where my godfather was so brutally murdered.' Harry gestured down at Malfoy's body, revenge glinting in his bright green eyes. 'The Ministry has been useless. I knew that unless I took it upon myself to bring Sirius's killers to justice, it'd never happen. 'This past summer, I've taken up lessons in Muggle street fighting. Kung-fu, to be precise. It took a great deal of discipline, and significant strength –' Harry made his hand into a chopper motion, and with a great 'whappa!' he split the coffee table in two clean pieces. 'My Asian street fight training, combined with my Quidditch reflexes, allowed me to murder Malfoy. From my cousin Dudley's dodgy arms-dealer friend, I acquired the revolver. I shot Malfoy from here,' he pointed, 'and then used the rope to swing myself across the sofa and stab Malfoy in the neck, just to be sure he was dead.'

'What about the poison in Malfoy's tea?' Snape barked, dissatisfied with the turn of events that allowed Harry Potter to become a kung-fu master.

Harry smirked. 'That was courtesy of my inherited house-elf, Kreacher.' He snapped his fingers, and a wizened little elf appeared, hunched over and looking rebellious. 'He didn't like doing it, but it was under my orders. But that was nothing compared to my next murder,' he said.

'Bella,' Voldemort hissed, wishing for all the world that he had his wand back from Snape.

'That's right,' Harry said, and Ron Weasley next to him smiled in approval. 'Bellatrix Lestrange. The murderess of my godfather.' He turned down to Kreacher. 'Kreacher, you'd better leave the room for this.'

Kreacher disappeared in a snap, a crackle, and a pop.

'You see, I knew that Bellatrix would never go without a fight. With me off guarding Pansy Parkinson, I couldn't get away to murder Mrs. Lestrange. So, I told Kreacher that Bellatrix was really a blood-traitor under the influence of Polyjuice Potion.' Harry laughed hysterically at himself. 'Kreacher went to the other elves of Malfoy Manor, and together they murdered _who they thought_ was a mudblood named Sam.'

_Who's Sam?_ wondered Voldemort.

'It allowed me to have an alibi, and gave Bellatrix the death she deserved.' Harry grinned, nodding at everyone, expecting praise.

'What about the poison in my cactus juice?' Narcissa demanded. 'Was that your doing too, you little brat?'

'Naw,' said Harry. 'I don't know what that was, Mrs. Malfoy. You ought to check the expiration date on it, or something.' He laughed again. 'So you all have me to thank! Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange are dead, thanks to me! Two less Death Eaters in the world!'

'I vote we make him an Auror now,' contributed Ron Weasley.

'You murdered my father!' Draco Malfoy growled.

'Anyone care for a spot of brandy?' asked Dumbledore, who meandered into the room chewing on an orange rind.

* * *

_That's not what happened. Here's what **really** happened:

* * *

_

'Now,' Snape said, 'of the murder of Lucius Malfoy, I accuse: Malfoy Manor!'

'Huh?' said Draco.

'But, Professor Snape, how can a _house_ kill someone?' Hermione asked, looking at the Potions Master/ CACA Inspector as though he had gone crazy.

'Snape, I think you'd better explain yourself,' Voldemort warned. 'We don't have time for absurdities.'

'Let the Manor explain!' Snape shouted.

Total silence greeted the declaration. The clock tick-tocked away in the corner, people shifted in their chairs, the curtains and doors and walls were quiet. Deep breaths of silence, in and out, as the party waited for something; they knew not what. Harry Potter coughed. Narcissa Malfoy cleared her throat, looking at Snape with something akin to sympathy of insanity. Still, the house was quiet.

'AT LAST I TAKE MY REVENGE!' a voice boomed from nowhere. Voldemort looked about wildly, trying to ascertain the source, but there was no one else in the room.

'EVERY ONE OF YOU WILL DIE TONIGHT! I WILL NOT REST UNTIL IT HAPPENS!'

'What the bloody hell -- ?' Ron Weasley said.

'Harry, I'm scared,' Pansy Parkinson said, grabbing the front of Potter's shirt.

'Draco,' said Ginny Weasley, 'is there something wrong with your house?'

Voldemort closed his eyes, trying to feel out this latest threat. Now that he noticed it, there was more magic here than the sum of the wizards present, or the normal charms and enchantments on wizarding homes. He heard a deep breathing, and felt like he was being watched. _It's the house_, he thought. _It's alive_. It explained the way the Manor moved and changed, the way it anticipated the needs of its guests, the way it held secrets. Except now, Voldemort knew, the house was in a very bad mood.

'Oh my gosh,' Hermione said, 'it's like the Overlook!'

'Oh, NO!' Harry said, his eyes widening as he looked about in horror.

'What's the Overlook?' Narcissa asked, eyes skittering across her drawing room as though she had never seen it before.

'It's an evil hotel that thinks for itself, with its own murderous mind,' explained Hermione. 'It was written about by a Muggle.'

Voldemort made a mental note to ask her who the Muggle author was. He might enjoy a book about an evil hotel.

'Narcissa,' said Snape, 'I think only you can communicate with the house. With the current circumstances of…Lucius's will…ownership has passed to you.'

'Oh, Severus!' Narcissa grasped Snape's hand, and Voldemort rolled his eyes at the display. 'Um…house?' she called tentatively.

'MRS. MALFOY,' said the deep, rasping, disembodied voice. 'I CLAIM CREDIT FOR THE MURDER OF YOUR HUSBAND.'

'But why?' Narcissa cried. 'What did he do to make his own house turn on him?'

'THE DÉCOR,' said Malfoy Manor. 'THERE IS A DISTRESSING AMOUNT OF GILT.'

'You murdered Lucius Malfoy over a difference in aesthetic taste?' Snape asked, looking puzzled. 'I thought for sure that he had insulted your greatness in some way.'

'YOU MALFOYS SCREAM OF NEW MONEY!' the house boomed. 'THE BROCADE! THE SILVER-THREAD TAPESTRIES! THE MARBLE! AND MOST OF ALL, THE HEAVY GOLD OVER-THE-TOP GILT** CANDLESTICKS**!'

Voldemort realised that the candlestick at the scene of the murder, lying on the floor, must have been a clue. But really, how could he have predicted the passionate temper of a house?

'I GIVE THE HOUSE-ELVES THEIR ORDERS,' said Malfoy Manor. 'I TOLD THEM TO BLOW THE LIGHTS. TO SHOOT MALFOY. I ORDERED THE POISON IN THE TEA. I CONJURED THE KNIFE THAT ISSUED FORTH FROM THE WALL, TO KILL LUCIUS MALFOY. I LEFT NO STONE UNTURNED.'

'I'll say,' Hermione muttered.

'What about Bellatrix?' Voldemort called. 'You had better explain that one! She had nothing to do with the gilt décor!'

'BELLATRIX!' and the house let out a disturbing guffaw. 'I HAD MY EYE ON HER SINCE SHE WAS FIVE YEARS OLD! DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHE DID? **DO YOU KNOW**?'

'No, I don't know,' said Voldemort. 'Why don't you tell us?'

'THE VANDAL! ON THE PRICELESS WOOD PANELLING IN THE SECOND-STORY BATHROOM! ETCHED FOREVER ARE THE WORDS 'BELLA WAS HERE'!'

Draco Malfoy stood up, looking outraged. 'You killed somebody over a bit of graffiti?'

'The Manor must have ordered the house-elves to kill Bellatrix, as well,' said Hermione, giving Voldemort a significant look. He recalled their conversation with Heffy the house-elf in the kitchens; the elf had said the 'house gives the orders.' Oh, dear.

'What about me?' Narcissa screeched. 'You tried to kill me, too, didn't you, House?'

'YOU'RE SHAGGING A MUDBLOOD!' the Manor boomed.

'That's Half-Blood Prince to you,' Snape said. 'And I am a CACA Inspector. Better than you'll ever be.'

'Professor Snape is a mudblood?' Pansy asked.

'Professor Snape is shagging my _mother?_' Draco

'That's beside the point,' said Snape. 'I hereby place the house under – erm – house arrest. And I suggest we all get out of here before it kills us. I'm outta here!' And in a whirl of robes, Snape made a dash for the door, fast as a jackrabbit. Malfoy Manor growled. Then there was pandemonium.

* * *

_Here's what REALLY happened:

* * *

_

'Now,' said Snape, 'For the murder of Lucius Malfoy, I _accuse_: The Women!' He pointed his finger first at Narcissa, then Hermione, Ginny, Pansy.

'What?' Narcissa drew back, offended. 'How dare you accuse me of murdering my husband!'

Voldemort thought Narcissa perfectly capable of killing her husband. It had been his private conclusion, in fact. But the other suspects surprised him. Ginny Weasley? Pansy Parkinson? And _Hermione_? It was impossible that the girl had kept such a secret from him, in all their wanderings together over the past two days. He was an expert Legilimens, and he had not detected guilt or deception in Hermione Granger…unless she had mastered Occlumency far beyond what he imagined.

'You didn't act alone, did you, Narcissa?' Snape said. 'I think it was the lot of you!'

'You're just bitter because I tossed you out of my bedroom!' Narcissa shot back. 'You think that just because you're good between the sheets, it means that – '

'La-la-la-la I'm not listening!' Draco Malfoy put his hands over his ears and started to hum.

'Maybe we should tell the truth,' Ginny chirped. 'After all, what are they going to do about it?'

'Yeah!' said Pansy. 'I want everybody to know that I'm not just some clinging little flower who needs to be protected.' She spared a dirty look at Harry Potter.

Hermione sighed. 'I was hoping we might get away with it, actually.'

Voldemort stared at the brown-haired girl. She _had_ deceived him! He had thought her susceptible to his persuasions, capable of turning to his service, but all the while she had led him on a wild goose chase to 'solve the mystery.' She'd probably tossed out red herrings galore, and looking back Voldemort realised how the girl had made a tiny suggestion here, a little comment there, that put his mind toward Narcissa and Snape as the guilty parties, and Bellatrix as a suicide. Outrageous.

'Ladies,' said Ginny. She stood up and held out her arms in a manner much like a chicken. Pansy, Hermione, and a reluctant Narcissa also stood, and in a circle they arranged themselves. They flapped their arms up and down, and to the utter mystification of the men present, they began to chant:

'Fee Fie Fo Fum! Fee Fie Fo Fum! We are the girls with beauty aplomb! We sisters vow our loyalty now; we are a sorority, a group of fun and verity! Bonded with vodka, gin, and rum, Fee Fie Fo Fum!' Then the women let out a series of hoots and bizarre noises, culminating in a group handclasp in the centre of the circle.

'What the bloody hell -- ?' Ron Weasley said.

'Ah, the Fee Fie Fo Fum Sorority!' Dumbledore said, wandering into the room and chomping on some piece of candy. 'Still alive and well, I see.'

'Headmaster! Where have you been?' Harry asked, blinking in bewilderment behind his glasses.

'The Fee Fie Fo Fum Sorority!' Snape said. 'And the murderesses of Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange!'

'Yep,' said Ginny. 'We're proud to admit it.'

'Maybe _you_ are,' Narcissa grumped.

'Cissy, you agreed to the plan,' said Hermione. 'During our chapter vote, remember?'

'You new pledges are impossible!' Narcissa cried. 'No discipline! No sense of respect for your elders! When I heard you were the new recruits this year, I was happy for you. But our sorority never murdered anyone before you three came along.'

'It was all Hermione's idea,' Pansy said, backing away from the circle.

'Hey, Parkinson, it's not too late for the Head Girl to take points from Slytherin House,' Hermione threatened. 'Besides, Ginny came up with the plan to sneak one of her dad's Muggle weapons into the hunting party.'

_Aha,_ thought Voldemort. Somewhere deep in his mind he remembered the elder Arthur Weasley as a lover of all things Muggle.

'Can I tell them how we did it? Can I?' Ginny jumped up and down, her red hair bouncing in its ponytail.

'Oh, all right,' said Pansy.

'Yes!' Ginny grinned. 'As Hermione said, it was my idea to use Dad's Muggle gun. Had to take it to a shop to get it working, but Hermione took care of that. Narcissa ordered the house-elves to turn off the lights at exactly a quarter to nine in the evening, and to add the poison to Malfoy's tea. Hermione brewed the box jellyfish toxin.'

Hermione smiled with pride at this, and Snape gawped at her. By now, Voldemort knew Hermione Granger was very capable of brewing such a complex poison, but it appeared Snape had underestimated the girl as so many others before him. 'That's correct,' Hermione said. 'My contribution was in planning and support.'

'Then you are an accomplice to murder!' Snape accused.

Hermione shrugged.

'Then,' Ginny continued, 'Pansy and I took care of the rest during the thirty-second interval of darkness. I fired the gun. Bellatrix drove the knife into Lucius Malfoy's neck. And Cissy was meant to knock him over the head by swinging the candlestick, and Pansy to strangle him, but I think they chickened out.'

'We're Slytherins, not Gryffindors,' Pansy said with a huff. 'Besides, he was obviously dead already. I was afraid of killing the wrong person in the darkness.'

'How thoughtful of you,' said Dumbledore, bobbing his head.

'Finally, we took revenge on Lucius Malfoy,' said Ginny, and her eyes sparkled with fever. 'For the horrible thing he did to me in my first year! For being a Death Eater! For treating one of our sistren with disdain and coldness!' She gestured toward Narcissa. 'Lucius Malfoy crossed the Fee Fie Fo Fum Sorority for the last time.'

Voldemort was floored. Women could not be trusted, that much was clear. These mere girls had plotted and carried out a calculated, brutal murder right under his flat nose. He decided there and then to initiate more females into the ranks of the Death Eaters, which reminded him of his recent loss. 'What of Bellatrix?' Voldemort's high voice rang through the room. 'Turned on one of your own, did you?'

Pansy smirked. 'It was a crime of passion,' she said. 'It all started in our last meeting.'

'Bellatrix insisted on taking down the minutes,' said Ginny.

'She has really _sloppy_ handwriting,' Hermione frowned in disapproval.

'Anyway, there was an argument over whose handwriting was the neatest, hers or Hermione's,' said Pansy. 'Bellatrix threatened to break our vows of secrecy and send the handwriting samples to a penmanship judge in Wales.'

'We couldn't allow that,' said Ginny.

'So, we had Narcissa order the house-elves to murder her,' said Hermione. 'They gave Bella a sample of her favourite chocolate fudge brownies that contained a sleeping potion, when we all separated after dinner. When she was subdued, they hung her from the ceiling.'

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley stared at their friend as though they did not know her. Ron, especially, glowered at Hermione, then turned to his sister Ginny. 'I forbid you to be a part of this sorority thing!' he declared.

'Oh, can it, Ron!' Ginny snapped.

'It doesn't matter,' said Snape. 'They are all under arrest! They've confessed to murder, conspiracy to murder, accessory to murder…'

'Hiawatha!' Ginny screeched, interrupting Snape's list.

'Hoi, hoi, hoi!' the other three women shouted. They charged like a pack of crazy birds. They tackled Snape to the ground. Snape went flying in the tangled melee of arms and nails and hair, blonde and red and black and brown. Dust flew and screams and shouts filled the air. Before anyone could prevent it, the women of the Fee Fie Fo Fum Sorority had possession of the wands, and Narcissa shot a quick '_Silencio_' at Snape. His mouth moved in protest, but no sound came forth.

It was this sudden turn in fortune that made up Voldemort's mind for him. He would take advantage of this situation. 'I've decided to form a new division of my Death Eater army,' he announced. 'It will be comprised entirely of females. They will have utter freedom to do as they will, answering only to me. And each will have an expense account.'

Hermione smiled at him.

* * *

_No, no, no. Never mind. Here's what happened:

* * *

_

'Now,' said Snape, 'For the murder of Lucius Malfoy, I _accuse_: the house-elf Dobby!'

'Dobby?' Pansy Parkinson said. 'That old house-elf of yours, Draco?'

'I hate that stupid elf,' said Draco.

Harry Potter smirked and crossed his arms after giving Ron Weasley a high-five. Hermione's face shone with pride and gloating.

'Yes, Dobby the house-elf,' said Snape. 'The former servant of Lucius Malfoy, currently in the employ of Albus Dumbledore and Hogwarts School. I accuse Dobby of orchestrating the violence of this weekend, under the banner of the newly-militant group ASPEW, or the Armed Society for the Protection of Elvish Welfare. Oh, and Miss Granger, you're under arrest as well, for founding a terrorist group.'

'Hey!' said Hermione. 'I'm not the only one here who's founded a terrorist group.' She glanced over at Voldemort.

'Yes, well, tonight we are concerned with the house-elves,' said Snape.

'Where _is_ Dobby?' Harry wondered aloud.

With a 'pop', the house-elf in question appeared. Voldemort stared. Dobby wore a stack of about thirty knit hats, an equal number of mismatched socks on his feet, and a criss-cross belt of what looked like shotgun shells. He brandished a sharp poker stick in one hand and a shield in the other. His hairy, pointy ears stuck out from the hats, and each ear was pierced with gold gangster-like hoop earrings. The elf wore a bright red t-shirt with a silkscreen picture of a bearded man, beneath which was the word 'Che.' Voldemort had never seen a militant house-elf before, and after this he did not want to repeat the experience.

Dobby the elf laughed shrilly. 'Revenge is mine!' he shrieked in a thin, raspy voice. 'The Malfoy family has paid for its ill treatment of house-elves!'

'Now, Dobby,' said Hermione, kneeling down in front of the house-elf. 'Violence is not the answer.'

'I did not used to think so,' said Dobby. 'But then in the Headmaster's office, I found a book. It is called 'the Communist Manifesto.''

'Oh, for heaven's sake,' said Voldemort.

'It explained to me about worker's rights,' Dobby continued. 'I saw that revolution was needed! This weekend is only the beginning! Soon, house-elves across the nation will stage their revolt!'

Pansy whimpered and grasped Harry's hand. 'I'd better tell my parents,' she said.

'Does this mean no more meals at Hogwarts?' Ron Weasley asked aloud.

'Way to go, Dobby!' Harry said.

'Silence!' said Snape. 'This house-elf is under arrest. There will be no more such incidents. Dobby is the leader of ASPEW, and as such I will cut off the head of the snake, so to speak. He is in custody. The other house-elves are lost without Dobby; I assure you all that we are safe.'

Narcissa ran to Snape and put her arms around his waist. 'Oh, Severus,' she murmured. 'Thank goodness you've caught the murderer.'

'He hasn't done any such thing,' Voldemort snarked from his corner. 'Dobby just appeared on command. Suspicious, if you ask me.' He rocked back and crossed his arms, self-satisfied. Across the room, Hermione nodded in agreement.

'Dobby,' Snape said. 'Confess your crimes.'

'Gladly!' said Dobby. 'For they are not crimes. They are defensive moves in an age-old war!' The elf tittered, then calmed himself down. 'I chose Malfoy Manor as the first example of house-elf power. It was my chance to get back at the evil Lucius Malfoy. I contacted my former fellows here, and I plotted the murders. Everyone who was ever mean to house-elves would die this weekend! We started with Lucius, with redundancy plans worked in to make sure he was killed.'

Voldemort was disconcerted to hear a house-elf use a word like 'redundancy.'

'Then,' said Dobby, 'Bellatrix Lestrange was next. She used to torture us when she was a little girl! She poked us with hot fire pokers! She hit us and kicked us! So we ganged up on her and hung her from the ceiling.'

It was no surprise that the sadistic Bellatrix had tortured house-elves as a child. It was one of the things Voldemort had loved most about her. But the action caught up with her, and to die in such a sneaky way! If it had not been sacrilege, he might consider that the mascot of Slytherin House should be a house-elf.

'Narcissa Malfoy, too, never gave us respect,' said Dobby.

Narcissa made a noise of protest, but Snape shushed her.

'We house-elves made certain that her cactus juice was toxic,' said Dobby. 'Then we locked the store-room with the bezoars. Unfortunately,' he sighed, 'that murder did not go all the way. But none of you are safe, even now!'

Voldemort regarded the little creature without fear, but he could not shake a creeping intuition that there was more up this house-elf's sleeve.

'Draco Malfoy! Pansy Parkinson! All the pure-bloods who've oppressed us for centuries! Prepare to die!' Dobby screamed. 'Hi-ya!'

'You are under arrest, Dobby!' Snape repeated in a loud, commanding voice.

'Not so fast,' Dobby giggled. He snapped his thin fingers, and Voldemort expected the elf to Disapparate. But instead, the sound of popcorn filled the air as house-elf after house-elf appeared in the room, each armed with iron pokers. They held their weapons in the air, a forest of sharp blades interspersed around the room.

Pansy let out a shriek and jumped into Harry's arms. From the sofa, Ginny Weasley stood protectively in front of Draco, who wrapped his arms about her waist. The room was dead silent, for the shock was great: armed house-elves, menacing their wizard masters. It was unheard of. With a quick flick of his hand, Voldemort gestured for Hermione to come to his side, which she did.

'What is going on here?' Snape bellowed, breaking the tense silence.

'I had no problem securing the loyalty of the Malfoy elves,' said Dobby, gloating. 'You see, they were most angry upon hearing the new terms of Lucius Malfoy's will. They felt betrayed! No house-elf would ever want to work for the new master of Malfoy Manor.'

'Hey!' said Narcissa, looking offended.

'Not you,' Dobby said. 'But you already know that, Mrs. Malfoy. You burned the will that left Malfoy Manor to the Dark Lord.'

'What?' Voldemort whispered.

'Why, you little --!' Narcissa threw herself toward Dobby, hands extended like claws, but Snape grabbed her by the arms and restrained her.

So that explained Narcissa and Snape's combined lies, Voldemort realized. Lucius Malfoy had proven himself loyal in death, and he, Voldemort, was the new owner of the Manor. If Voldemort had known of Lucius's will, he would have made sure the slippery Death Eater had died sooner. As it was…

'But we house-elves declare ourselves the owners of the Manor!' Dobby shouted, and the other house-elves let out incoherent cries of agreement. They shook their spears up and down. Next to Voldemort, Hermione stepped behind him a fraction, letting him guard her from the evil elves.

'Hup, hup, hup!' the elves chanted. 'Hup, hup, hup! ASPEW! ASPEW! ASPEW!' They bared their teeth, they stomped their feet, looking like a vicious band of pygmy cannibals. They advanced on the humans.

'Kill!' said Dobby. 'Kill!'

From the hallway, Dumbledore popped his head into the room. His eyes widened as he took one look, then he left.

The last thing Voldemort saw was a dozen spear points aimed at him. The last thing he heard were female screams, male shouts, house-elf chants. Then everything went dark.

* * *

_Now for the Real Ending:

* * *

_

'Now,' said Snape, 'For the murder of Lucius Malfoy, I _accuse_: Albus Dumbledore.'

This did not surprise Voldemort in the least. He knew it, he just _knew_ it; everyone's favorite Headmaster was a murderer. He giggled aloud, causing looks of consternation to be thrown his way, but he was too delighted to care.

'Professor Dumbledore would never murder anyone!' Harry Potter declared, and Voldemort rolled his eyes. 'And if he did, there was a good reason for it! MALFOY WAS A DEATH EATER! Have you all forgotten? And BELLATRIX --!'

'Harry, keep your voice down, for heaven's sake,' Hermione said. 'I want to hear this.'

'Albus Dumbledore,' said Snape. 'I am convinced he is the guilty party. In fact, I have reason to believe he orchestrated this entire weekend. The extent of his motives, I have yet to discover, but it stands to reason that the deaths of Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange were not the only murders planned for this party.' Snape gazed at each person with a significant, dark stare. 'There were to be more.'

'Gee, I wonder who,' said Harry, glaring at Voldemort.

'He would never have succeeded in killing _me_,' Voldemort scoffed. 'I have more friends than he does.' He sounded like a child saying it, but it was true. Voldemort was very popular.

'But why?' Ginny Weasley asked. 'Why involve all of us?'

'Maybe he needed a cover for his activities,' Pansy suggested. 'That's what I would do.'

Everyone looked at her. 'What? It's not like I _did_. I'm just saying.'

'It makes sense,' said Hermione. 'Perhaps Dumbledore wanted blame to be spread across everyone. But that doesn't seem like something he would do…'

'The noble Gryffindors aren't so noble,' crowed Narcissa. Hermione shot her a dirty look.

'Where is Professor Dumbledore, anyway?' Harry wondered aloud. Next to him, Ron Weasley shuffled toward the door, a fact that was not lost on Voldemort. Come to think of it, there was such a startling resemblance between the Weasley boy's eyes and those of Dumbledore – bright blue, twinkling, humorous, ridiculous. Voldemort was contemplating the reasons for it when Snape shouted 'Aha!'

Every person jumped. Draco Malfoy shouted out, 'You murdered my father!'

And Dumbledore stepped into the room.

'Hello,' the Headmaster said happily. 'I found some butterscotch toffees. They're very good! Does anyone want some?' He held out a purple bag stuffed with sweets, looking for all the world like Santa Claus.

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Voldemort. 'No one wants your stupid candies.'

'You never did like sweets, Tom. I feel sorry for you. You're missing out.'

'Ugh,' said Voldemort.

'You know, sweets aren't really good for the teeth,' added Hermione. 'All that sugar.'

'Thank you,' said Voldemort, mollified. He shared a look of agreement with Miss Granger. She smiled in his direction and then refocused on the Dumbledore-Snape showdown that looked to be brewing from the latter's end.

Snape's eyebrows twitched as he looked at the Headmaster. 'Dumbledore,' he growled, 'did you not hear me? You are under arrest!'

'Oh, that,' Dumbledore waved a hand. 'Don't blame me.'

Ron Weasley, in a surprise move, made a break for it. He ran for the door like a bull charging a matador, ramming past Narcissa who squeaked with surprise, heedless of the standing cries and shouts from the room. 'Ron!' Ginny exclaimed. 'What are you doing!'

'Someone stop him!' Draco shouted.

Snape leapt forward, snarling, grabbed Ron by the collar. They went down in tumbled heap on the floor. 'What is the _meaning_ of this, Mr. Weasley?'

'Urp,' said Ron, muffled.

'Oh, I am sorry,' said Dumbledore.

Ron rubbed his bum gingerly as he stood up next to the Headmaster. It was then that Voldemort saw it: they were the same height. Same eyes. Same build. And when young, Dumbledore had that crazy auburn hair…

Dumbledore spoke. 'I think we'd better –'

'—confess,' finished Ron. 'Good.'

'In collusion!' Hermione exclaimed. 'Oh, Ron, how could you?'

'Collusion, Miss Granger?' said Ron. 'Not quite.'

'You see,' Dumbledore continued, 'how can you be in collusion with yourself?'

'There was one grand strategist of this weekend,' said Ron.

'And he,' said Dumbledore,

'Is me,' said Ron.

'What the hell?' Draco said.

The whole room descended into silence after that, each person trying to match up the revelations, no one quite believing what they'd heard. Pansy had a puzzled wrinkle between her eyes, giving her the look of a confused bulldog; Harry stared at Dumbledore and Ron with wide goggled green eyes behind his glasses. Ginny tilted her head at them, her mouth slightly agape, and on the sofa next to her Draco gripped her hand like death and worked his jaw in tension.

Hermione glanced at Voldemort, wanting him to read her thoughts, and Voldemort saw the questions floating between her eyes: who was Ron? Who was Dumbledore?

'I beg you, confess your crimes!' Snape declared. 'Let the whole room know your guilt.'

'If you can call it guilt,' said Dumbledore. 'You see, time is a marvelous thing. It's like putty, flexible and bendy. It can be moulded into shape, fun shapes, giraffes and dinosaurs and –'

Voldemort tuned out as the Headmaster expounded on the magical properties of time. This was not news to him. Then Ron spoke up.

'Therefore,' said Ron, 'it came to my attention some years ago that I am, in fact, Professor Dumbledore.'

'And I remember it well,' said Dumbledore. 'I was Ron Weasley.'

'That's impossible,' Harry spluttered. 'Not possible. How can the two of you exist side-by-side?'

'The clues were there for you, Harry,' said Dumbledore. 'Did you not recognize the watch I – er, Ron – received for my birthday? The clock with stars and planets?'

'Oh,' said Harry. 'Huh?'

'Don't forget the eyes,' said Ron. 'Windows to the soul.' And indeed his eyes were Dumbledore's to the life.

'We like lemon-drops,' said Dumbledore.

'We are matchless and equals at the game of chess,' said Ron. 'And boy, do we hate the Dark Arts. Always have, always will.'

'So,' said Dumbledore, 'I made a pact with myself. My function in life was to be rid of Dark wizards! In every form! As Ron Weasley, I time-travelled at the age of thirty-six, back through the years, to undo the effects of the Dark Arts. I began with Grindelwald. Ever since, I have traversed the earth, doing away with evil. For this weekend, I cast a Confundus Charm on Mrs. Malfoy – I am sorry about that, Mrs. Malfoy, by the way – but it was necessary in the overarching plan. I planted the idea of having a hunting party. I knew that Lucius Malfoy would be done away with; it was a stroke of luck to find Bellatrix too, and of course our nemesis Voldemort. But that's Harry's job to kill him, and also a tale for another day.'

Voldemort almost objected to this, but he was too interested in the new turn of events to speak up.

'Ron.' Hermione turned to her friend, arms crossed like a stern schoolteacher, lips pressed together. 'For goodness' sake. What is all this about? You're not really the Headmaster, are you?'

Ron Weasley shrugged. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I didn't know it myself, until I – Dumbledore – my future self decided to tell me. Really, it makes sense. We kind of share a brain, you know.'

'So that's why you always knew where Dumbledore was!' Harry burst. 'And, Headmaster, er, Ron, er, whatever. You did this whole thing?'

'Treachery!' Narcissa shrieked, pointing her finger at Dumbledore. 'You tricked me! You murdered my husband!'

Dumbledore said, 'Come, now, Mrs. Malfoy. Don't pretend to be too sorry about Lucius's death.'

'Enough interruptions!' Snape interjected. 'Albus Dumbledore is under arrest. As, I suppose, is Ron Weasley.' He said this with particular relish. 'Though I find it hard to believe that Mr. Weasley could be one and the same as the Headmaster; his mind lacks brilliancy.'

'An illusion of ignorance, Severus, it was all an illusion,' said Ron.

'Ron! He's a Professor,' admonished Hermione in protest at the familiar use of Snape's first name.

'We are happy to take responsibility for the murders of Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy,' said Dumbledore. He folded his hands in a gesture of ceremony across his chest. 'This is our mission, and we chose to accept it whole-heartedly.'

'Ron, what will Mum and Dad say?' Ginny despaired. 'You've been in cahoots with your older self and you've gone around committing murders!'

'And dispensing lemon-drops,' said Ron. 'That's part of it, too.'

'Lemon-drops,' Voldemort and Harry muttered together. They looked at one another, startled, then each turned away with arms crossed. But despite the distasteful sharing of Harry Potter's thoughts, Voldemort was happy. What an overthrow! Albus Dumbledore in Azkaban for murder! His good mood threatened to bubble over into maniacal laughter. As a young man he'd learned the skill of maniacal laughter from a Dark Wizard in the south of Germany and taken his lessons to heart.

But to interrupt the Dark Lord's glee, the great booming doorbell of Malfoy Manor rang. Then it rang again. No one moved.

'The Aurors have arrived,' Snape said with a satisfied air. 'Dumbledore-Weasley, put your hands up.'

Dumbledore, with his same barmy smile on his face, obliged. So did Ron Weasley. But then with a flick of Weasley's wrist, a dark powder flew out, cascaded down, hit the floor. Voldemort recognized it at once: Peruvian Darkness Powder. He'd ordered it by the crates from that store, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. And for the second time that weekend, the drawing room was plunged into false darkness, filled with the sounds of a scuffle.

Several feminine screams. Voldemort heard Ginny say, 'Draco, behave yourself!' and then giggle. Narcissa called out Snape's name as though searching.

'Bye-bye, suckers!' Ron called through the blackness.

'Get off me!' Snape shouted. 'He's got their wands! Stop him! You're under arrest, Dumbledore, I swear I'll find you!'

Voldemort let his intuition guide him toward Snape. He found the Potions Master/ CACA Inspector in the middle of the dark cloud, knowing it by reaching out with his hands to grab a head of greasy hair that could only belong to Snape. 'Give me my wand,' he hissed in his most menacing voice.

'Fine,' Snape hissed back. He must have been too angry at Dumbledore-Weasley to care about Voldemort's escape.

Wand in hand, Voldemort took a moment to enjoy the chaos. Yes, he'd lost his best Death Eater this weekend. But there were compensations. The choking black fog began to clear. Hermione Granger stood with her hands gripping the back of a chair, determined not to move until it was all over. Draco and Ginny were draped in a suggestive embrace on the sofa and sprung apart when they noticed the light returning. Harry stood, looking bewildered, as did Pansy next to him. Narcissa, who was beautiful and serene aside from a smudge of black soot on her cheek, sat in icy stillness in an armchair.

Ron Weasley and Albus Dumbledore were gone from the room.

'Well,' said Snape, coughing a little. 'They've escaped. Apparated, most likely. But it's not the end!' He shook his fist in anger. 'They're deep in CACA now!'

After that, no one knew what to say. In the wake of his outburst even Snape seemed at a loss, settling for a flush of anger on his pale cheeks.

Then Hermione spoke up. 'So it was Dumbledore,' she said wonderingly. 'And Ron. The murder is solved.' And the room was quiet and at peace with itself for the first time all weekend.

Voldemort made the declaration that had rested on the edge of his mind for several minutes now. In the triumph of knowledge he cleared his throat and made the announcement.

'Case closed!'


End file.
